


The Midnight Theory

by GodSaveTheKings



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Betrayal, Canon Gay Character, Canon Gay Relationship, Conspiracy, Drama, F/F, Female Friendship, Friendship, Gen, Mystery, Time Loop, Time Travel, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2018-08-22 16:52:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 74,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8293072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GodSaveTheKings/pseuds/GodSaveTheKings
Summary: After her equipment is destroyed during a routine mission, Tracer sees a vision of the future where Overwatch is betrayed and destroyed by one of their own. Desperate to stop her vision from coming true, she races to find a way to change her fate, as the clock ticks down to their destruction. Can she save both her friend and Overwatch, or is the future truly set in stone?





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> The following is an idea for a story that we thought would be fun to share with you. If enough people like this idea and want this made into a full story, then we'll write it once we finish our current work. As we know essentially zero things about Overwatch, we apologize if we get any of the details wrong. Feel free to correct us. With that being said, enjoy.

Tracer felt nothing as she was violently thrown out of the thirty-story building, and she was not quite sure whether that was cause for celebration or alarm.

One the one hand, it meant that she was fearless, and she relished the thought. Despite the tingling sensation in her stomach caused from rapidly plummeting to the earth below, and the deafening rush of wind that blasted against her face and whipped her hair into a frenzy, she remained calm and collected, proving that she had the extensive training and experience necessary to face any potentially-life-threatening event that she came across.

On the other hand, it also meant that she had been violently thrown out of enough thirty-story buildings in her lifetime that she had grown numb to it, and she had to wonder whether or not she had chosen the right path in life. Granted, she absolutely adored that tingling in her gut and the blast of the wind on her face, but it's not like it was the only life she would have been willing to take. She would have been more than happy being a horse rancher, for instance. She doubted that the horses would have violently thrown her out of so many thirty-story buildings, as long as they were fed their hay and their manes were washed every so often. She most certainly had been violently thrown out of more thirty-story buildings than the average twenty-six-year-old, brown-eyed, button-nosed, cheeky English woman. In fact, she was probably violently thrown out of more thirty-story buildings than the average twenty-seven-year-old, brown-eyed, button-nosed, cheeky English woman as well, but she would probably have to look up the statistics when she found the free time.

Time, after all, was the one thing she never had to worry about. Time did not work for her like it worked for other people. Whereas most people would panic incessantly upon being violently thrown out of a thirty-story building, she could allow her mind to wander to wherever it sought to go without having to worry about how little time she had left before she splattered against the city streets. There were so many things to think about that she did not know what she would possibly do if she couldn't manipulate time while freefalling to her imminent death. Of course, there was the aforementioned philosophical discussion of the long-term effects of prolonged exposure to be violently thrown out of a thirty-story building, but there was also the reformation of Overwatch, the arduous process of locating as many former members as she and Winston could find and convincing them to rejoin the team, as well as attempting to find new recruits, which was, admittedly, significantly harder than she originally anticipated. She thought about how it was one of their first missions back together, how the Vishkar Corporation had continued their development of hard-light technology, and how they had followed Talon to Utopaea to prevent them from stealing a new prototype of unknown power. Her mind hopped between each of these thoughts like an introspective frog, jumping from lily pad-to-cognitive lily pad, never resting for more than a moment before moving onto the next.

It was while thinking of how nice the view of the city was that Tracer realized that the ground was approaching far more quickly than she realized, and only managed to trigger the reverse mechanism of her chronal accelerator just a dozen meters above the sidewalk. Her body cackled with blue energy, before she shot upwards like a rocket, casually slowing as she ascended. She flew backwards through the shattered window thirty stories above, and planted her two sneaker-clad feet onto the cold, tiled hallway. The accelerator eased, ticking slower and slower until coming to a complete stop, and Tracer breathed a sigh of relief.

"Lena! Are you okay?" Pharah, the team's latest—and only—new recruit called from over her earpiece. "I saw you falling, and I tried to get to you in time, but—"

"Ah, don't worry about," Tracer said innocently, brushing off the concern with a flick of her wrist. "I just fell a little. Got a nice view of the city, though."

"A little?" Pharah asked. "You fell twenty stories."

"Yeah, but I had it under… wait a minute. Twenty stories?"

"Yes. What's wrong?"

Tracer's heart deflated. "Nothing," she said dismissively. "Just… seemed bigger in my head, is all. Anyway, how's everything going?"

"I'm pinned down on the roof," reported Genji. His voice screeched like sheets of metal scraping against each other. "Reaper is up here. There isn't enough room up here to dodge him."

"I'll come up and give you cover fire," Pharah stated. However, Mercy interjected from above.

"I don't think rockets are the best idea," claimed the medic. "Too much risk of collateral damage. Plus, we don't know where Amélie, and you are a much bigger target for her than I am. Pharah, you worked with security personnel before. Keep them at bay. I'll try to get Reaper's attention off of you, Genji."

Tracer groaned. She forgot about the legion of Vishkar security forces that had been chasing her down during her pursuit of Widowmaker. They were somewhat difficult to tell apart from the regular Talon goons that she plowed through on a regular basis, as the building was very dark, and their armor was similarly shaped, with colors were only a few shades apart. She put that aside, and tried to remain focused on the task at hand.

"I'll go after Amélie," she said. "I doubt she got very far."

"She's probably headed up to the roof," Pharah added. "I don't see her anywhere outside. She must be taking the stairs."

"Gotcha," Tracer said with a nod. She blinked down the hallway, searching for the nearest stairwell. Finding a marked door to her right, she whipped her pulse pistols out of their holsters, and kicked open the door. She immediately shifted her gaze up the rectangular stairwell, and much to her satisfaction, saw a long dark ponytail bouncing up and down several flights above. With a smirk, Tracer blinked upwards, hopping off each railing to gain momentum, before taking a grand leap above Widowmaker's head, and landing on the rails directly above her, squatting like a gargoyle on its perch.

"We've got to stop meeting up like this, love," Tracer quipped with a grin. "People are going to start talking."

Widowmaker looked up in shock, before her blue face twisted into an aggravated scowl.

"Didn't I kill you already?" the assassin said with disdain. Tracer shrugged.

"Well, you win some, you lose some."

"I prefer to win," Widowmaker sneered. She reached behind her back to take out her pulse rifle, but Tracer jumped into her, knocking the Talon agent down the steps and sending her weapon flying out of her hands. Widowmaker smacked against the concrete wall. She slid to the floor, clutching her ribs in pain, as Tracer walked over and kneeled in front of her.

"And I prefer to stop having to kick your butt every time I see you. Now, how 'bout you play fair, and give me back the data you stole."

Widowmaker grinned. "What data?"

"C'mon, love," Tracer moaned. "Don't be like that. Hand it over, and no one will get hurt."

"That sounds boring," Widowmaker said with a laugh. Suddenly, the door below burst open, and three members of Talon/Vishkar security directed their guns towards the two women.

"You two! Freeze!" the ordered sternly. While Tracer was distracted, Widowmaker lunged forward and landed a sucker punch in the ex-mercenary's gut, forcing her to double over in pain. The assassin jumped to her feet, grabbed her weapon, hopped onto the railing, and launched a grappling hook up between the steps. She smiled, reaching into her suit through the gap in her chest, and pulling out a small data chip.

"Au revoir."

Tracer hurried to her feet as Widowmaker propelled herself up to the roof. The armed men looked on in confusion, unable to fire.

"Hey!" Tracer shouted. "Come back here!"

She began to quickly blink up the stairwell, chasing Widowmaker further upwards. The guards, snapped out of their stupor, opened fire, launching a hail of bullets around the two women, unable to hit the fast-moving targets. Tracer pushed her chronal accelerator as far as she could, barely reforming before she dissipated and rocketed forward once again. She reached outward, desperately trying to grab ahold of Widowmaker's leg, but she was just out of reach. No matter how hard she strained, her fingers barely grazed against the assassin's boots. Right when she felt like she was finally about to make contact, they reached the roof of the stairwell. The spider swung away on her web, launching herself through the roof access door with full force, as Tracer chased close behind.

They had made it to the helipad on the roof of the tower, where Reaper stood in the center, his shotguns aimed at a distant target. Far off in the darkened sky, Tracer could make out the glowing yellow wings of Mercy's Valkyrie suit, and the green shimmer of Genji's exoskeleton.

"A little help," Widowmaker called to her partner, who spun around and aimed his weapons at Tracer's torso.

"Uh oh," Tracer muttered, blinking away at the precise moment he pulled the trigger and plastered the door with bullets. She dashed around the landing pad, but it was not long before she realized that she was in a very bad situation. Reaper remained rooted in place, keeping the entire roof under his command. Even as she attempted to shoot at him, the shots passed through his skin, vanishing underneath a veil of black smoke.

"Where is our ride?" Widowmaker asked, concerned.

"It's coming in now," Reaper growled. The sky was pitch black, but in the moment between blinks, Tracer thought she saw a large, dark vehicle moving swiftly towards them in the moonlight.

"Are you—seeing—that—guys?" asked the speedster.

"Don't worry. I got this," cried Pharah. The ground rumbled, and from somewhere beneath the horizon, Pharah launched onto the roof, hovering twenty meters above and out from the helipad in her dark blue armor. She turned her back to the Talon agents, and aimed her rocket launcher at the dark shape racing towards them.

The mistake was impossible to ignore. Tracer saw the wheels in Widowmaker's head turning, and a sly grin creep over her dead face. She raised her sniper rifle, and took aim, locating her target. Though Pharah's flesh was not exposed to the sniper, the jets used to keep her afloat were out in the open. Mercy was too far away to catch her, and even if she could, there was no way she would be able to support the weight. Below the Egyptian soldier, there was nothing but air. And, unlike Tracer, she did not have time on her side.

Tracer may have had many thoughts running through her mind at any given moment, but she believed that she was someone who thought things through very well. Maybe if she took a few seconds to think, she would have thrown a pulse bomb, or shot the gun away from her enemies, or done something that wasn't completely insane. But Tracer saw that the life of her ally—her friend—was in danger, and her instincts took over. She sprinted towards the edge of the helipad, and blinked towards Pharah as Widowmaker pulled the trigger.

The shot rang out in the still night. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. Tracer reappeared, and before she could so much as take a breath, the bullet struck her in the center of her chest, ripping through the chronal accelerator with such force that it nearly tore burst through the other side and into her skin. Gravity had not yet taken her, so she had plenty of time to process what had just occurred. She stared down at the machine designed to keep her tied to the present. It screamed in pain, buzzing, clicking, whirring, creating a cavalcade of horrendous noise that tunneled into her ears and pounded at her mind. Blue energy cackled in every direction, let loose from its containment. Half a second later, reality caught up to her. Pharah turned around and stared in horror. Mercy screamed out her name, her voice distant even as it spoke directly in her ear. She began to fall once more, as the machine suddenly went silent.

"That can't be—"

She was gone. The world was torn from her, as every sound, every sight, every sensation disappeared into the void of time. Her skin turned transparent, and her bones became hollow. Her blood boiled and froze over. She spasmed uncontrollably, unable to think, unable to process the lack of reality around her. She was everywhere at once, and yet she did not exist. She needed to get out. She knew that she needed to escape, but she could understand what caused her to think that? Memories teleported in and out of her mind. Who was she? Why was she there? Soon, the need to leave transpired, and she continued floating in the abyss, empty.

She closed her eyes, and when she opened them, she found herself standing in a house in the American suburbs. An ancient red sports sat in the driveway, circa 1950. A young boy whom she did not recognize sat at the kitchen table. His hair was blond. His eyes were hazel. His mother, with matching features, cooked him breakfast. Pancakes. Bacon. The father walked into the kitchen. He wore a business suit. She gave him a forced smile. Was she afraid of him, or was she simply unhappy with her choices? Did she even have a choice? Was this life planned out for her before she ever had a say in the matter? The father skipped breakfast. He got in his car and drove away. The mother wept silently over the pancakes.

Tracer blinked, and the world transformed. She stood in a cave. A Neanderthal huddled around a small fire, his only source of warmth. Wearing nothing more than a loincloth, he hid from a snowstorm. The bones of a small mammal lied beside him. He had already stripped it to the bone. Was this thing her ancestor? Was there a reason for her to see this? Or did he die in that snowstorm right then and there? Was she the last person to know of its fate? She could not tell.

She blinked again, and suddenly, she was standing on pavement. She was in London, her hometown. But, it was different somehow. Screams filled the air. Upon looking around, she realized that she stood in the middle of a crater that took up what used to be a four-way intersection. She looked at her feet, and gasped. There, lying dead on the ground before her, was Winston, his body charred and damaged beyond repair, glasses shattered by his head. She looked around further, and clasped her hand over her mouth in terror. All around her were the bodies of Overwatch members, burned and broken. They all stared, wide-eyed, long after they died, as if permanently transfixed on the moment of their demise. Tears started to pour down Tracer's face. The sight was too much. She closed her eyes, hoping to disappear, but the bodies remained, gazing lifelessly into the beyond.

As Tracer sunk to her knees in despair, a figure walked passed her, marching over the corpses of her friends. They wore jeans and a black hoodie, which was pulled up over their head to cover their features. Tracer watched as the figure moved towards the center of the crater, before a hand reached out from the bodies and grabbed it by the ankle. It was Pharah who clung to life, looking up pathetically at the hooded figure.

"How… how could you do this to us?" Pharah choked out. "You… you were supposed to be our friend…"

The hooded figure reached into its pocket, pulled out a handgun, and pressed it against the Egyptian's temple. With its free hand, it casually pulled pack its hoodie, allowing Tracer to get a clear look at its face. It was a face that she recognized immediately: big blue eyes, a sharpened jaw, and wavy blonde hair pulled loosely back behind her head.

"I'm so sorry about this," the figure said, each word punctuated with a thick, Swiss-German accent. "I really am."

The figure pulled the trigger, but just before the shot was fired, Tracer blinked, and suddenly, she was elsewhere. She found herself floating in a large, glass tube. Blue streams of light swarmed her, rushing over her arms and legs. She was in some sort of laboratory, but she didn't bother trying to figure out if she had seen it before. She needed to go back. She needed to see what happened. Did she really see that, and if so, what did it even mean?

"Lena! There you are!" shouted a deep, happy voice. Winston jumped into view, placing his massive hand upon the glass.

"Winston?" Tracer asked, still reeling from the shock. "What happened to me? Where am I?"

"You took a bullet for Fareeha," Winston explained. "The shot damaged your chronal accelerator. You've been lost in time for the past three days. I've only just finished this machine to find your chronal signature and bring you back to the present."

Three days? Had it really been that long? It only felt like a few minutes.

"Did they get the data back from Amélie?"

Winston shook his head. Tracer sighed dejectedly.

"What matters is that you made it back in one piece," Winston said with a soft smile. "I should get to work making another accelerator. In the meantime, let me find Angela. She would want to make sure you're still healthy.

Tracer went quiet. Angela. The vision. The glimpse of death rushed into the forefront of her mind. She slammed her hands against the glass, and screamed.

"Winston. I need to tell you something!"

"What's wrong?" he asked, pushing up his glasses.

"I… I think when I was stuck in that time stream, I saw a vision of the future. Our future," Tracer stuttered. "I saw… I saw your deaths. The deaths of everyone in Overwatch."

Winston was taken aback. He moved in closer to the glass.

"Our deaths? How?"

"You all die in an explosion," Tracer stated. "But that's not the important part. I think that the person who causes the explosion is—"

"Lena! You're okay!"

Tracer looked away from Winston, and froze. Mercy stood in the open doorway, smiling happily at her terrified friend. Noticing the fear in her eyes, however, she frowned, very confused.

"Is something the matter?" Mercy asked innocently. "It looks like you've seen a ghost."


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who left feedback and support. We have decided to continue this story, though updates probably won't be very frequent, as we're still primarily wrapping up our other in-progress story at the moment. If you want more sooner, tell us. We won't know unless you tell us. So, tell us. Do it. Do it now. Also, read and enjoy.

"Okay, Lena. Open up and say, 'Ahh.'"

Lena followed the doctor's orders precisely. She stuck out her tongue, and Angela examined the back of her throat with her penlight. She had already shone the light into her eyes, and forced her to track it with her gaze like a dog learning tricks. Despite having received countless physicals throughout her youth, Lena still had no idea what were the purposes of any of the tests that the doctor regularly performed. Still, out of habit, she did not object to any of them. Instead, she sat impatiently on the medical bed, her legs dangling freely off the side, feeling almost naked in nothing but a T-shirt, loose sweatpants, and the adorable pink slippers that she bought at a garage sale two weeks before she entered flight academy. A freshly repaired chronal accelerator hugged her torso tightly, buzzing and humming as it worked to keep her attached to the present.

Angela seemed satisfied with her results. She followed with more standard tests: She measured Lena's heartrate with a stethoscope, recorded her reflexes, and logged her grip strength, all of which provided standard, plain results.

"Well, there doesn't seem to be any immediate symptoms," Angela said, her voice cold and calculating. "If it's alright with you, though, I would prefer it if we took an MRI scan, just to be safe."

Lena nodded in silence. She had barely spoken since she had returned. Angela took out a blood pressure monitor, and wrapped it around the pilot's arm. As she began to squeeze, her voice softened.

"I was really worried about you."

"Hmm?" Lena said, perking up slightly.

"When we at the tower," Angela explained. "I saw you get shot, and then you disappeared, and for a moment, I actually thought that you…" She paused, and let out a pained sigh. "It was really scary for a few days there. I'm just… I'm glad that you're okay, Lena. I can't imagine what it would be like if you were gone."

Lena did not how to respond. Angela's blonde hair fell loosely on her shoulders, and there were thick, dark bags under her blue eyes. It was a face marked with concern, yet it was not what Lena saw. Instead, Lena saw the same face, steeped in darkness, emotionless in its depravity, ready to take a life, and she froze, paralyzed by its visage. Angela placed a warm hand on her shoulder, and she instinctively recoiled at its touch. Angela backed away in surprise, as Lena, realizing what she had done, turned her gaze in shame.

"Sorry," she quickly apologized. "I didn't mean to—"

"No, it's fine," Angela said with an understanding smile. "I get it; you've been through a lot these past few days. You're probably a bit… what's the word? Jumpy."

"I don't like being jumpy," Lena groaned. "I mean, I _do_ like it, but not like this. When I'm happier, you know? Maybe 'bouncy' is a better term."

"I follow," Angela smirked. She unattached the device from Lena's arm, and studied the results. Her blood pressure was higher than average, but within the speedster's normal range. Concluded with her tests, Dr. Ziegler packed up her instruments, pleased at her findings. "Look, I know I'm not a psychiatrist, but if you ever need someone to talk to about what you're going through, you know where to find me."

"Thanks, Angela," Lena said, trying her best to sound sincere. Before the medic could leave, Winston entered the medical bay, holding a laptop underneath his arm, and a stuffed paper bag in his hand.

"How's our patient doing, doctor?" he asked worriedly.

"Well, she seems to be rather healthy," Angela said optimistically. "Her physical turned in nothing out of the ordinary. She'll need to rest, but I don't see any sings of shock. I want to run her through some more scans, however, just to be safe. I doubt I'll find anything, but you know how these things can be."

"Do whatever you find necessary, Dr. Ziegler. You have my full confidence."

"Excellent," Angela smiled. "Oh, I almost forgot! I did find _one_ notable change. Lena, it seems that being trapped outside of time caused your spine to decompress. Earth's gravity should correct that after a month or two, but until then, you'll be three centimeters taller than normal. I hope that doesn't bother you, does it?"

"Are you kidding? Now I can finally go on all those rollercoasters!" Lena joked halfheartedly.

If she was attempting to fool them into thinking she was alright, she knew she failed. But, whether out of sympathy or pity, Angela laughed along, wiping an imaginary tear from her eye. She waved goodbye, and left the pilot and the ape alone together. As soon as the door closed, Winston rushed to Lena's side, deeply concerned.

"Are you really okay?" he asked. Lena shakily nodded.

"Just a bit stunned, is all."

"You're not in any pain?"

"Not that I can tell."

"Good to hear," he said, stern and focused on the task at hand. "Now, do you want to tell me more about that vision you had?"

Lena shuddered. At once, the images flooded back into the forefront of her mind. She could vividly picture every detail of the lifeless bodies, the smell of ash and char, the screaming echoing throughout the city streets. The memory stung more and more with each passing second, until she had to force her eyes shut and lie down on the bed.

"It's alright, Lena. We don't have to talk about it," Winston assured her.

"No, we should," Lena said, defeated. "You deserve to know."

"What specifically did you see?" he asked, adjusting his glasses. "You mentioned an explosion, right?"

"I _think_ there was an explosion, but I'm not sure," Lena admitted. "I only saw the aftermath. I was in London, and there was this massive crater in the center of an intersection. I saw your bodies: you, Genji, Mei, Jesse… all of you, dead in the middle of the road."

"Were we on a mission?"

"I think so. You had all your equipment on. Except for-"

Lena paused, and took a deep breath. Her leg fell off the bed, causing her slipper to flop onto the floor. Winston picked it up by the tips of his massive fingers, and delicately placed it back onto her bare foot.

"Go on," Winston said, taking numerous mental notes.

"Fareeha was still alive," Lena explained, her voice trembling as she recalled the horrific events. "She tried to crawl away and get help, but then…" Lena shivered. "…then Mercy shot her in the head."

Winston glanced up in shock. "Angela? Are you sure?"

"It was her," Lena said solemnly. "She was dressed like she was a fugitive. She walked right up to Fareeha, pulled out a gun, said she was sorry, and then… _bang_."

"That doesn't make any sense," Winston muttered to himself, deep in thought. "Angela is a pacifist. The whole reason she left Overwatch was because she didn't support her inventions being used for harm."

"I know what I saw. Angela kills us. I don't know why—I _wish_ I knew why—but she does."

Winston began to frantically pace around the room, deeply analyzing the information. "This is not good. This is not good at all."

"But it's okay though, right, Winston?" Lena asked. "I mean, we can fix it, can't we? Now we know what happens, so we can prevent it."

"No, that's… that's not possible," he said dismissively.

"Wh-what do you mean?" she asked, confused. "Of course, it's possible. Now that we know Angela is the problem, we can stop her from turning against us. Besides, all you have to do is not go to London, and you'll be fine. We can save Overwatch."

"Overwatch cannot be saved, Lena," Winston said, heartbroken. "If you saw the death of Overwatch, then it means it _has not_ been saved. And it _will not_ be saved."

Lena was dumbfounded. She sat up on the bed, and threw her arms up into the air. "What are you talking about? I could talk to Angela right now, and she'll—"

"No, Lena," Winston said forcibly, silencing the young woman. "It does not matter what you tell Mercy about the future. Any act you take would only put us further on the course of our own demise."

"Can you please just _explain_ what you're goin' on about?" Lena asked desperately.

Winston sighed. "Okay. Imagine, if you would, that time was like a book. We can only perceive time one way: moving forward. We read the book left-to-right, moving from one moment to the next like turning pages. When you travel across time, like you are able to do with your chronal accelerator, you are flipping back-and-forth among pages at will, choosing where you want to go next. However, no matter what page you turn to, or how far you go, the actual _text_ on the pages never changes. Time does not change. You cannot change the future… it is impossible."

Lena shook her head. "No way. There is no way that you can know that for certain. You _have_ to be wrong."

"Calm down," said Winston. "We need to approach this logically."

"Calm down?" Lena asked, shooting off the bed and jabbing her index finger into Winston's nose. "You just told me that everyone is going to die, and we can't do anything to stop it. That isn't _calming_ , Winston. How can I be calm when you're basically telling me that I should give up?"

"I'm not telling you to give up," Winston tried to explain, but Lena sharply cut him off.

"It sure sounds like _you're_ giving up," Lena said accusingly. "After all the work you did brining Overwatch back together, you plan on laying down the second you think something isn't going your way. That's not the Winston I know. Do you _want_ everyone to die? Do you _want_ Angela to end up like Amélie?"

"Lena, might I make a suggestion?"

"What?" Lena protested. "What could you possibly suggest that would make any of this better?"

Winston said nothing. He merely reached into the paper bag, and removed its contents, holding it outward in the palm of his hand. Lena pursed her lips, and placed her hands on her hips. In Winston's outstretched palm was a pleasantly large jar of peanut butter. Crunchy peanut butter. Delicious peanut butter.

"Winston, what is that?" Lena asked incredulously.

"Crunchy peanut butter," Winston replied.

"I can see that," Lena stated. "Why are showing me this?"

"Because you technically haven't eaten in three days," Winston stated in return, "and that might make you a bit irritable."

"Do you have a spoon?"

"Would you use the spoon?"

"Touché."

Lena snatched the jar of peanut butter out of Winston's hand, and planted herself firmly on her mattress. She hastily removed the lid before dipping three fingers and scooping the wonderful, godly substance into her mouth. It wasn't until she swallowed her first mouthful that she realized just how hungry she was. She immediately felt soothed, and the anxieties that beset her faded away. Naturally, it helped that she was consuming chunky peanut butter, the most perfect invention ever created by mankind. She continued to dig in, three fingers at a time, swinging her slipper-clad feet back and forth as Winston attempted to explain himself once again.

"Now, we need to think logically about this," he said, stroking his chin. "Theoretically, time cannot be altered. That means that even if we identified what caused Angela to turn against us, assuming she did, we would be powerless to stop it."

"Mmhmm," Lena moaned through a mouthful of crunchy peanut butter.

"We have no reason to believe that doing anything will stop your vision from coming true," Winston theorized. "But, it is possible that we are missing vital information. How much of the future would you say you saw? Ten, fifteen seconds at most? The most important thing we can do right now is try to get a clearer picture of the future, and what might be the cause of it."

"And maybe change the future in the process," Lena added.

"That's not possible," Winston reminded her.

"It used to be impossible for apes to talk, too," Lena reminded him.

Winston smirked. "Touché."

Lena placed the half-eaten jar of crunchy peanut butter on the bed, and hopped to her feet. She stretched her arms behind her head. "Then, I suppose we should get to work. Time isn't on our side. We should go warn the others."

Winston's smile vanished. "Wait a minute. I'm not so sure if that's a good idea."

"They have a right to know what's going to happen. Especially Angela."

"I don't she's going to take that very well. Or any of them, for that matter. Hearing that their deaths are inevitable might cause them to panic."

"Come on, love. Wouldn't you want to know if you were marching headfirst into danger?"

"What if telling them is the event that starts us towards the end?"

"What if _not_ telling them is the event that starts us towards the end?" Lena suggested. "You said it yourself: the future is fixed. It doesn't matter what we do, so why not be honest? Isn't that what being on a team is all about?"

Winston shook his head. "I have a very bad feeling about this."

"Don't fret," Lena said with a half-smile. "We'll work this out somehow. We're a family, and nothin's ever gonna tear us apart again."

* * *

Sombra rested her cheek on her knuckles as she scanned the many screens in front of her. SO much data. All of it so boring. Meaningless. Pathetic. Her fingers danced on the holo-keys, causing the information to soar by like a rushing river. Alone, in the darkness, surrounded by technology, she felt more at home than anywhere else, but it still did not satisfy her.

Widowmaker slipped in behind her without making a sound. Sombra only noticed her when she slammed the data chip onto her desk, causing the hacker to jump back in surprise.

"Hey, don't sneak up on me like that! You nearly gave me a—"

Sombra locked onto the data chip, and her eyes suddenly lit up with delight.

"You actually got this?" Sombra screamed, giddy with disbelief. "Chica, you are _golden_!"

"I went through a lot of trouble to get that," Widowmaker said, unamused. "This better be worth it."

Sombra picked up the data chip, and held it in front of her face, letting it glow in the violet light of the screens.

"Oh, baby," she cackled with glee, "this little beauty will change the world."


	3. III

It was, without a doubt, the funniest video she had ever seen. The ten-second-long video had played on an endless loop for fifteen minutes straight, and yet, every time she saw it, it somehow got funnier than the last. She could not comprehend why she found it to be so enthralling. It was simplistic, like the countless others of its kind; and yet, no matter how much she tried, she could not stop laughing, and could not look away. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that she had just finished a long day's work, and was rather tired. Or perhaps it had something to do with the specifics of the video, such as the camera placement, or the timing of events. Or perhaps, just perhaps, it had something to do with the half-drained bottle of tequila she held loosely in her left hand. Regardless of the cause, her laughter consumed her, and she feared that she would never be able to stop.

The video looped again, and Sombra snorted loudly, rolling back in her chair. Her legs were kicked up on the table in front of her, and as she collapsed into a fit of mad giggles, she thought that she might fall backwards onto the floor. She barely managed to regain her balance before the loop started again, and she lost control once more. The hacker clasped her free hand over her mouth, desperately trying to hold back her laughter, but the pressure was far too great for any human being to bear.

When Widowmaker casually walked into the darkened room lit only by the soft glow of the numerous holographic screens, her only reaction was a disappointed sigh.

"Look, look at this," Sombra cried, pointing wobbly at the screen before her. Widowmaker—filled to the brim with overwhelming curiosity and excitement—shook her head and took a meandering glance at the video in question. On the screen, she saw a house and lawn covered in a thick layer of snow. An oak tree stood next to the house, and on one of its outstretched branches was a small, fluffy tabby cat, carefully balanced on the thin wood, eyeing the distance between the tree and the roof. The cat steadied itself, and then with all its energy, it pushed off on its hind legs, lunging for the rooftop. It barely left the branch before it plummeted like a stone, flopping belly first into a pile of snow, vanishing from sight. Sombra cackled wildly in delight, wiping tears from her eyes. Widowmaker blinked twice as the video started to repeat itself.

"This is the worst thing I have ever seen."

"It's a cat!" Sombra screamed giddily, finally pausing the video. "It tries to jump to the roof, but it is too tiny and weak!"

"You're wasting time," Widowmaker scolded. "You are supposed to be working on the project."

"I finished that hours ago," Sombra said dismissively. "I earned myself a little break, no? Come on, take a seat. Relax."

"I don't waste my time with felines." Widowmaker crossed her arms over her chest. "Or with drunks."

"I'm not drunk," Sombra insisted, swaying in her seat. "I am enjoying myself, chica. Also, you can't be French and tell me that you don't like to drink."

"A few corrections. First: That is a nasty stereotype. Second: I do not need to drink anything. And third," Widowmaker added, her tone turning unnaturally bitter, "there is a crucial difference between fine champagne and that cheaply distilled trash."

"Hey, this is no trash," Sombra stated, thrusting the glass bottle directly in the assassin's face. "This is top of the line stuff right here. I spent a lot of good money on this."

Widowmaker gently pushed the bottle to the side with a lone finger. "You didn't pay for that with your own money."

Sombra chuckled. "Please… _all_ money is my money."

The hacker took another long swig of the bottle, letting the liquid wash over every part of her body, down to her very soul. Widowmaker watched silently, unmoving, as the bottle was slowly drained of ever last drop, before being placed on the table with a satisfying clunk.

"Can I have the project now?" Widowmaker asked coldly.

"I sent it to Captain Skullface," Sombra said smugly, a large, dumb grin on her face. "What is with that guy anyway? Does ever take that mask off? Seems like it would get awfully sweaty under there. Does he even sweat?"

"You are clearly drunk."

" _You're_ drunk, puta."

"I know what that word means," Widowmaker said, monotone and uncaring.

"I know you know I know you know," Sombra slurred. "You know?"

"Well, since we are getting things off our chests," said Widowmaker, "I am going to make myself very clear, because you'll be too drunk to remember it. I do not like you. We are not friends. They trust you out of foolishness. I am fully aware that you are not loyal to Talon, and you are only using us to further your own gain. The only reason you are helping us with this project is because you think that you will get away with it. So, I want you to know this: The absolute _second_ you outlive your usefulness, I will be there to put a bullet in the back of your skull, and killing you will be the greatest joy I have had in my life."

"Well then," Sombra snickered, leaning back comfortably in her chair, "guess I better not outlive my usefulness. Want to know something even more important?"

With a wag of her finger, the video sprung back to life, and the cat plummeted ungracefully back into the snow. Sombra cracked up, overflowing with drunken laughter. Widowmaker rolled her eyes. For a moment, she considered reaching for her gun, and putting the hacker out of her misery, but resisted. There was still work left for Sombra. In the coming days, Talon would need all the help it could get. She decided to leave the room without killing the pitiful excuse for a human being. Yet.

* * *

Lena had not been able to go to sleep for quite some time. She lied quietly in her bed, hands clasped together over her waist, eyes closed, trying as hard as she could to rest. She felt more tired than she ever had in her life, and yet, despite her best efforts, she remained awake and aware.

It was the fault of memory that kept her stirring. In the quiet of her room, sectioned off from the other members of her team, she had nothing to prevent the memories of the day from playing vividly in her mind's eye. She could not help but think of Angela, who stared at her, wide-eyed and dreadfully confused, as she attempted to explain her vision. She thought of how the medic laughed at first, believing the entire story to be a gag, a clever trick Lena had come up while chatting with Winston. Then, came the confusion as Lena repeated her story, recalling every perfect detail of death and betrayal she witnessed. The refusal came afterwards, starting as a soft rejection of the idea, followed by the vehement, near-desperate denial that she had committed any wrongdoing. Angela repeatedly claimed how she could never be capable of such a thing, how there had to be some kind of mistake, and that Lena had been misled by her vision. Lena thought of how Winston calmly explained the scenario to her, and how slowly but surely, Angela grew more defeated, sinking her face into her hands, and pleading that she would never hurt a soul.

The others took it slightly better, if only because the concept was so absurd that they had no reason to believe it. They offered Angela nothing but support and kind words, assurances that everything would turn out alright. She received countless hugs, and if not for the impending sense of dread, Lena almost would have felt relieved. But despite the kindness from her companions, she could not help but notice the concern in Angela's eyes, the erratic twitch of her fingers that told her the doctor had a million thoughts swarming through her brilliant mind. It was no wonder then that Angela agreed to Winston's suggestion to undergo rigorous testing. The two spent the remainder of the day in the lab, locked away from the rest of the team, performing who knew how operations and procedures.

As for Lena, she had two jobs: eat and sleep. The first part was easy. Ever since her accident, Lena had grown a substantial appetite, one that put even Reinhardt to shame. It did not hurt that Mei periodically shoved food in front of her over the course of the day either. She dined on pizza, chicken, a wide assortment of vegetables, and of course, four jars of peanut butter. Eating was effortless. It was the second part that eluded her. Her curious eye popped open, and peered to the alarm clock on her nightstand.

A quarter past two. Dang it.

Lena swung her legs off the side of her bed, clutching the edge of her mattress. Her soft, cotton pajamas clung to her skin, and the hum of the chronal accelerator filled the room as the device hung on her chest, a sensation to which she had long since grown accustomed. With a sigh, she groggily jumped to her feet, stuffed herself inside her soft, pink slippers, and left her room with her hands shoved into the pockets of her pajamas. Even though the outpost was practically her second home, it still felt bizarre roaming its stainless metal halls. She was, after all, traveling through an underground bunker, and though she tried her best to make her personal quarters feel less alien, every reverberating footstep reminded her of the inhumanity of the structure, the purpose of her mission. Overwatch as not her family, despite what she liked to think; they were her comrades in arms, and the hollowed shell she called home was their base of operations. Nothing more, nothing less.

Like a child sneaking into the kitchen to steal from the cookie jar, Lena crept silently through the base, trying not to disturb the delicate quiet. Her legs guided her more than her mind, and before she knew it, through a power beyond her own, she found herself outside the door to the medical lab. She heard the call of voices from inside, and against her better judgment, pressed an ear to the door to better make out what they were saying.

"Have we tested hormonal balance yet?" Angela asked, deep in thought.

"Yes. There didn't seem to be any abnormal hormone fluctuation," Winston replied. "Do you know what hormones could even cause you to act like that?"

"A couple," Angela stated. "High levels of corticotropic hormone. Vasopressin. Oxytocin is often associated with lust, but even that could cause fits of rage."

"You don't suffer a fit of rage," claimed Winston. "According to Lena, you make a premeditated move to betray us."

"Lena also said she did not get a very good look at what happened. I am simply throwing out options. I don't want to get caught off guard."

Lena knew that it would be for the best if she left the two alone. She did know why she then decided to knock on the door, and then immediately poke her head inside. The two stopped their conversation instantly, and stared at her, unamused.

"Lena, what are you doing here?" Winston asked, concerned. "You're supposed to be getting rest."

"Couldn't sleep. Long day," Lena said, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her. "Besides, I wanted to check up on you, see if you made any progress."

"This does not concern you," Angela said sternly. "What you should be more worried about is making sure that you make a healthy recovery."

"Of course, this concerns me," Lena replied. "You're my friend, Angela. I want to know if you're okay."

Angela rubbed her temples, and took a seat on one of the examination tables. "Well, so far, I seem to be perfectly fine. That's our biggest problem."

"I think it's fair to assume that Angela wouldn't betray us under her own will," Winston explained. "Our best guess is that whatever causes her to attack us in your vision is the same thing that turned Amélie against us. That would make the most sense."

"The problem is that we don't know what exactly it was they did," said Angela. "When we found her after her disappearance, I ran her through every test I could possibly think of. I did not leave anything to chance. When I finished, I determined that she was one hundred percent medically sound, completely normal. Two weeks later, she killed Gérard, and vanished. I still don't know what they did to her, or how they did it."

"It would be easier if we had data on Amélie today. Then we could compare the difference between the samples, and figure out what happened. Until then, we are searching for problems that we don't know exist.

"Not to mention, if I am already compromised, I could be tampering with the data without even knowing it. It is frustrating, to say the least."

"So, what's the plan?" Lena asked, worried. Angela bit down on her lip.

"If we don't find a way to fix me, or a way to find the details of what happens next," Angela explained, "then the safest thing to do would be to lock me in a holding cell."

"What?" Lena exclaimed. "You can't do that. We're not going to start treating you like a prisoner when you haven't done anything wrong."

"But I could do something wrong," Angela noted. "I am a doctor first and foremost, and doctors have two jobs. One is to cure problems, but the other, more important one is to prevent them. We know next-to-nothing about your vision. We don't even know how far into the future it is supposed to occur. The last thing I am willing to do is risk the safety of everyone in Overwatch because I acted carelessly. I am more than willing to separate myself from the rest of the team until we learn more."

"That's not fair," Lena stated angrily.

"Hopefully, we won't have to come to that," Winston said, stepping between the two. "We're getting ahead of ourselves. There's still no guarantee that Talon altered Angela in any way. They held Amélie captive for months. As far as we know, they haven't gotten to you at all."

"I haven't been back with Overwatch for very long. They could have gotten to me while I was away."

"I don't think that's the case. Surely, if they did, you would have made your move."

"I'd like to think so. Maybe not. We don't know what Talon is planning. We still don't know what they plan to do with that data they stole from—"

Then, suddenly, Angela paused. She looked at Lena, and all at once, a great look of shock and fear came over her.

"Lena?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Are you okay?"

Lena did not understand until she felt it. Something warm and thick flowing freely out of her nose. She brushed her fingers against it, and stared in awe at the red substance sticking to her skin. Her eyes remained locked onto her hand until, without warning, they rolled back into her head, and she collapsed. Angela dove after her, barely catching her head before it crashed into the cold floor. Lena trembled wildly, and Angela held her close, trying to keep her still. Winston towered over them, panicked.

"What's happening to her?"

"I don't know," Angela said, frightened. "Lena, I need you to stay with me, okay? Do you hear me? Lena?"

Lena heard Angela's voice fade as the world around her grew dark. She did not feel pain. She did not feel fear. She simply felt empty, as if she did not truly exist. Everything around her was dark, and the sounds no nothingness filled her ears.

Then, in the blink of an eye, she was elsewhere. She was in the medical lab, except things had changed. The rest of the team stood gathered around one of the medical tables, mournful and silent. Angela was gone. Winston, as Lena quickly saw, lied on the table, unconscious, hooked up to machines and barely breathing. Fareeha rested on her knees, holding Winston's massive paw in her hands.

"I can't believe she would do something like this," Fareeha whispered. "I know we were supposed to expect this, but…"

Suddenly, Lena was elsewhere. The holding cells. Lena stood outside the bars, peering inside at the loathsome creature writhing in its dark corners. Angela held her knees to her chest, sobbing uncontrollably, with one hand pressed to her forehead, where a massive gash opened, spilling blood onto the floor and dying her bright blonde hair a violent shade of red.

"I'm innocent. I swear I didn't do it," Angela sobbed through the pain. "I would never… I couldn't, I just couldn't…" She turned to Lena, afraid. "You believe me, right?"

Lena blinked, and she was in an alleyway, its stench forcing its way into her nose. She was alone in the moonlight, staring into a dead end, her pulse pistols extended outwards towards the nothingness. Her arms were heavy, and she felt a lifetime's worth of agony upon her shoulders. Then, for a reason she could not fathom, she took one of the pulse pistols, placed it against her skull, and pulled the trigger.

The base. One of the hallways. Two figures stood alone in the distance, unaware of the fact that they were being watched. Angela was on her hands and knees, a bandage wrapped tightly around the wound on her head. She shook with terror, eyes focused down at the boots of the man in front of her. Jesse had his revolver placed against her forehead, cocked and ready to fire.

"Please… please, you don't have to do this," Angela begged. Jesse sighed, heartbroken.

"For the good of Overwatch," he said softly. "Hate that it had to come to this."

And then, Lena was back on the four-way intersection in the middle of London, standing in a pile of corpses. Pharah clung to the ankle of the hooded figure, struggling to keep her grip.

"How… how could you do this to us?" Pharah choked out. "You… you were supposed to be our friend…"

The hooded figure pulled out a handgun, and pressed it to Pharah's head. The hood fell back, and Lena saw her, clear as day, the one who betrayed Overwatch. Every detail of her face was in perfect view. Lena tried to call out to her, but found that she had no voice to use.

"I'm so sorry about this," the figure said, each word punctuated with a thick, Swiss-German accent. "I really am."

The figure pulled the trigger, and then Lena was gasping for breath, lying on the floor of the medical lab, as Angela held her in her arms. From her point of view, she truly did look like an angel. Lena reached up to the doctor's face, and gently brushed her hand against her cheek. She whispered, her voice weak and desperate.

"Please. Don't."

Then, Lena's body went limp, and she passed out.


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back. Happy holidays. Also, Blizzard sucks, and they need to stop. We're fairly convinced they're doing this just to make our lives miserable. First, they introduce Sombra, and we have to change our whole story to accommodate her. Then, right when we're about to upload a new chapter, Blizzard comes out and releases vital new details about Tracer, and we have to write the whole thing all over again. Do you know how hard it is to write lore-accurate fanfiction when important parts of the source material are updated at random? It sucks. It sucks hard. And they suck for doing it. But luckily, we're adaptable, and as such, the character details have been accounted for. If they do this again, we're not changing anything. We probably will though, because we hate ourselves. Anyway, here's a new chapter. Enjoy.

"Lena. It's time to get up now."

Lena moaned in protest. She felt the warmth of the morning sun on her cheeks flooding past the window, and slid her bare legs through the satin sheets covering her bed. She nestled her head further into the cotton-clothed lap that made her pillow, breathing softly into the gentle hand that caressed her face.

"Wake up, sleepyhead."

Lena's eyes flickered open. As the world came into focus, her gaze locked onto the beautiful, red-headed angel smiling down at her. She playfully swatted at the woman, who caught the hand and entangled it with her own.

"Do I have to get up now?" Lena groaned.

"It's getting late," said the gorgeous creature, "and you have plenty of work to do."

"I don't want to do any work," Lena said, closing her eyes. "I just want to lie here forever. With you."

"We both know that can't happen," the woman cooed, delivering soft kisses to each of Lena's fingers. "They need you. Besides, I'm not even real. You're still dreaming."

"And?" Lena giggled. "Let me dream, Em. They can wait."

Emily laughed softly, running her hand up Lena's cheek to rummage through her dark hair. "You might be timeless, Lena," she whispered, "but they aren't. You can't save them unless you get up."

Lena sighed, but smiled nonetheless. "Will I see you when I fall asleep tonight?"

"How about," Emily suggested, "you wake up, you defeat the bad guys, and then you can see me. The _real_ me. Sound good to you?"

"Sounds perfect," Lena said in bliss.

"Good," said Emily. "Now, wake up."

Lena opened her eyes. The softness and comfort of her bed were gone, replaced with the aggressive coldness of the medical bay. Her body was rigid underneath the thin, cotton blanket, and in every direction she looked, she was overwhelmed by the blank white that colored the room. She could not tell how much time had passed, but she did notice two other, very important things. The first was that she was not alone; sitting in a chair to her left, feet kicked up on her bed and arms crossed over his chest, was a very casually dressed Jesse McCree, whose wide-brimmed hat was pulled down over his eyes. The second thing she noticed was the blistering migraine, and the painful sensation that her brain was about to burst out of her skull.

She let out a pained gasp, bolting upright on the bed. Jesse did not move from his relaxed position as he spoke.

"So, you finally decided to get up."

"What… what happened?" Lena asked, clutching her head with both hands.

"You passed out about twelve hours ago," Jesse explained, uncomfortably calm. "From what they told me, it was pretty bad. I've been here keeping an eye on you since before dawn. Been trying to make up for the lost hours."

"I passed out?"

"Well, first you had a seizure."

"A seizure?" Lena asked in shock. "Do they know why I had a seizure?"

"Well, let's see," Jesse said, scratching his chin. "There was a lot of science talk that was kind of hard to follow. The gist of it is you're suffering the aftereffects of 'chronal disappearance' or something."

"Chronal disassociation?" Lena corrected him.

"Let's go with that," Jesse said with a shrug. "Winston tried explaining it to me. He said that floating around outside of reality for such a long time and suddenly being yanked back messed you up a bit. He said something about how your brain's sense of reality and your body's sense of reality aren't synchronized properly. He told me to think of it kind of like jetlag, except its space-time instead of normal time, and instead of feeling tired, you almost die."

Lena took a deep breath, struggling to accept her diagnosis. "Am I… am I okay now?"

"I think I'm supposed to ask you that, kid." Jesse smirked, raising his hat to meet her gaze. "How you feeling?"

"Like my head is trying to tear itself off my shoulders," Lena stated, fighting back the urge to cry out in agony.

"Sorry to hear that. Thought the worst of it was over when Winston found you floating in the ether."

"I thought the worst of it was over years ago," Lena admitted. She collapsed onto the bed, and pulled up the covers. She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the world in the hopes that the pain would stay out with it. Naturally, it was a fruitless effort. With her luck, as of late, she was not very surprised. She could add being prone to seizures and violent trips across the multiple planes of existence to the list of things she experienced that most twenty-six-year-old women did not, only this time, she was quite certain that was a bad thing.

"I'm not sure if sleeping is the best thing for you right now. You only just got up."

"And I wish I hadn't," Lena groaned. She knew there was something crucial she needed to say, but she could hardly think past the torture in her mind. She turned over on her side, desperate to ease the horrid aching.

"Well, regardless, I should probably go tell them that you're awake," Jesse said, stretching his arms. He casually rocked to his feet, and without prompting, patted Lena on top of her head. "Try not to die while I'm gone, okay?"

Jesse left the room quietly, shutting off the some of the unnecessary lights as he made his exit. Many years ago, Lena probably would have felt offended by his comments but she knew Jesse well enough to understand the kindness behind his words. Being uncompromisingly brash was simply the way he was, and knowing that constant remained eased her mind. Things had changed so much in her life in only a couple of months. One moment she was living a peaceful life in London, and the next, she was swept back into Overwatch to fight a threat that—for all she knew—would never end. She left plenty behind to reunite with her team, and now it all seemed like it was about to fall apart, the same as before.

And then, like a flash of lightning, it came back to her all at once. Her visions flooded back to her, and her eyes shot open. In a fever, she bolted to her feet, and ran towards the door. However, after only a couple steps, she tumbled to the floor, coming to a full stop. She felt as if the life had been sucked right out of her body, and the burning in her skull intensified, to the point where she could no longer concentrate on the world around her. She planted her head firmly on the cold, hard ground, crying out in distress. Seconds later, Jesse walked through the doorway, a bottle of pills in his hand and a look of dissatisfaction on his face.

"That was the other thing they wanted me to tell you," he said plainly. "You shouldn't try to move too much."

Lena opened her mouth, but the words were too difficult to form. Jesse carefully wrapped his arms around her thin frame, and carried her back to bed. He gently laid her down before walking to the sink, filling up a small paper cup with water.

"I got something that should help with the headache," he stated, walking back to her bedside. "The label says to take two of these. I'd recommend three. Or four. Or seven."

"Je…Jesse…" Lena gasped. The gunslinger shushed her.

"Stop talking," he instructed her. "Jeez, you look like you're about to keel over. Now let me see here…" He held the bottle of pills close to his face, squinting at the label. "Side effects may include: dizziness, nausea, drowsiness, cramps, etcetera, etcetera. Do not operate vehicles after use. Do not use if pregnant. Do not use if—"

"Jesse!" Lena blurted out finally. "Where's Winston?"

Jesse raised an eyebrow. "Winston? He's been working with Angela since they brought you in."

"Are they alone?"

"Yeah, doing their work. Why?"

"You need to stop them," Lena said quickly. "Get Winston away from her, or get someone else there to watch him. Do something—"

"Whoa, whoa there, girl," Jesse stopped her. "I'm going to need you to take a breather. Take the pills, and then talk."

"There's no time," Lena said hurriedly. "If we don't stop them, Winston will—"

"Oxton," Jesse said sternly, silencing her. "Medicine first. Winston later."

Lena begrudgingly swiped the materials from his grasp, and downed three pills as fast as she could. She gulped down her water, and then let the words flow freely from her lips.

"I had a vision while I was out," she explained. "More visions than last time. I don't know how or why, but soon, Winston is going to get attacked."

"Attacked?" Jesse asked. "Who attacks him?"

"I… I think Angela does it," Lena said worriedly. "I can't be sure. I didn't actually see the attack, only its aftermath. But, from what I could tell, everyone in Overwatch blames her for it."

"Didn't you already tell us this?"

"No, this is different!" Lena said forcefully. "This attack happens sooner than the other one. Or maybe it happens instead of the other one. I don't know how this time travel thing works." Lena clutched her head, and winced. "You need to get them away from each other. That's all I—"

Lena paused, noticing a figure standing awkwardly in the doorframe. The bespectacled watched the conversation with a dumbstruck look on her face, her hands clasped behind her back.

"Is, uh," Mei stammered, "is this a bad time?"

"No, it's fine," Jesse said. "You two can talk, if you want. I have to go check on some things." With a nod, the gunslinger left. Mei nervously stepped into the dimly lit room, fidgeting in her sweatpants.

"I wanted to check on how you're feeling," Mei claimed.

"Not too well," said Lena, "but thanks."

"Oh, it's nothing," Mei shrugged. "Everyone's worried about you. Well, they're worried about a lot of things, but you, primarily." She adjusted her glasses, and stared at the floor. "So… something's going on with you and McCree?"

"Hopefully, he's taking care of it. You shouldn't have anything to worry about."

"Well, not until we all blow up, right?" Mei said with a small laugh. Lena did not laugh. Mei stopped laughing. "Anyhoo, is there something I can get you? Food? Water? I can bake you a cake. You could probably use the sugar."

"Mei, what's wrong?"

Mei coughed nervously.

"What are you talking about? Nothing's wrong except you. Not that you're wrong. You're not wrong. You're great. Perfect even. Just absolutely perfect in every single—"

"What happened while I was out, Mei?" Lena asked, suspicious.

"I don't want you to get upset with me."

"Spit it out, love," Lena said. "I got a blistering headache, and I'm not in the mood for you to be playing around with me."

Mei rocked back and forth on her heels, a dark blush overtaking her face. She clicked her tongue around her mouth several times, before casually spitting out, "Emily might know about what happened to you."

And with that, Lena's streak of bad luck continued.

"What do you mean she knows?" the time traveler shouted frantically.

"Don't get mad, don't get mad, don't get mad," Mei said in a small, terrified voice.

"How does she know? Did you call her?"

"Here's what happened," Mei explained as fast as she could. "I was talking to Fareeha, right? And we were having this pretty good conversation about the environmental conservatism, because it turns out she has sort of an interest in that, but then your cell phone started going off like crazy, and Fareeha—not me, definitely _not_ me—decided to take a peek at it, and she was like, 'This lady is asking a lot of things about Tracer and why she hasn't called her back in the past few days,' and she only just joined so she doesn't know who Emily is, and I wasn't thinking and I didn't know who was texting so I just told Fareeha to type back that you were in an accident, but then afterwards she told me that it was Emily, and then Emily started to call you over and over and over again, and I freaked out, and I ran to tell you, and now I'm here, and _absolutely blame Fareeha_."

Lena rubbed her temples. Her migraine seemed to increase its intensity tenfold from hearing Mei's news, and she secretly wished that she would have another seizure just so she could pass out again and forget about everything. It took many long, stressful hours of arguing and debate to convince her girlfriend to let her rejoin Overwatch after the recall. One of the key factors of their final agreement was that Lena would make sure she did not seriously maim or injure herself, a promise that neither knew they could keep but considered vital nonetheless. The last thing she needed was Emily freaking out about her injuries.

"I'm really don't have time for this," Lena moaned. "Fine. I'll give her a call and see if I can explain it to her without her having a stroke."

"Your phone was destroyed."

"Are you _kidding me_ , Mei?" Lena screamed. "How? How the hell did my cellphone get destroyed in all this?"

"Fareeha threw it against a wall."

"Why would she do that?"

"She got annoyed at the constant phone calls."

"She didn't think that maybe she should try to answer it? With words?"

"Her whole thing is that she blows stuff up!" Mei cried defensively. "What makes you think that she would take a subtle approach to anything?"

Lena aggressively threw herself into her pillow. She did not want to say she was a person who hated life. In fact, she rather enjoyed most of the things in it. However, as of late, she hated everything. Her life was falling apart, piece-by-piece, and with every passing moment, and with every glimpse into the future, it seemed things would somehow only get worse.

Within ten seconds, she was proven right, as the entire building suddenly shook violently, and explosion was heard off in the distance. The two heroes snapped to attention, exchanging confused and worried glances with each other before simultaneously running off towards the source of the explosion. Lena followed behind Mei, moving sluggishly. On any other day, she could outpace anyone on their team, but it was a struggle just to stay on her feet. She hugged the wall, using it as a support as she ran the seemingly infinite distance from the medical bay to the central computer hub.

When they finally arrived, what they saw was the charred remains of the room that served as the center of the base. Everything had been blown to pieces; computer parts were spread out haphazardly on the floor, and the wreckage of tables of chairs strewn elsewhere. Jesse and Angela lied in the front corners of the room, both groaning in pain as they struggled to their feet, their bodies covered in ash. However, what caught their attention the most was the massive, unconscious gorilla that lied crumpled in the center of the room.

"Winston!" Mei screamed, dashing to his side. She quickly brushed pieces of rubble off his body, and pressed her head to his chest. "He's not breathing! We need to do something."

As Mei desperately searched around for something to assist her, Lena's gaze drifted. Her eyes locked onto Angela, who valiantly fought to her feet, crying out in pain as she moved her legs. Instinctively, she walked over to the doctor, and placed a hand on her shoulder. Every fiber in her being told her that something was wrong, and she needed to run away, but something planted her in her spot.

"Angela, are you okay?" Lena asked. The doctor turned to look at her, her blue eyes staring at Lena with shock. The two gazed at each other for a long time, unspeaking and unwavering. "Angela, what happened?"

The doctor remained silent, as if she did not understand the question. She could not stop staring at Lena's face, examining it, studying every last detail. Lena leaned in, trying to get a better look to see if she suffered any injuries from the blast.

And then, Angela growled, and lunged forward tackling Lena to the ground. Before Lena could react, Angela hovered over her, wrapping two hands around her throat, and squeezing as hard as she could. Lena gasped for breath, trying in vain to shove Angela away. Mei watched from a distance, too stunned to move.

"You have to be eliminated," Angela stated passionately, never breaking eye-contact. "For the good of the world, I must take you down."

"Ang… Angela…" Lena gasped, struggling for air. Angela was determined to squeeze every molecule of air out of her body, and she did not have the strength to fight back. No matter how hard she struggled, she would never be able to break free.

"Don't try to fight. Accept your fate," Angela droned. "I will—"

Suddenly, the butt of a revolver cracked against Angela's skull, and she tumbled to the ground. Lena took a deep breath, choking and sputtering on the floor. McCree stood over both of them, gun in hand, watching as the blood started to pool out of the gash in Angela's head. The other members of Overwatch entered the room one-by-one, clueless to what events transpired. Jesse helped Lena to her feet, and she looked down at Angela, who lied unconscious in a pool of her own blood.

"Well, Lena," Jesse said bluntly, "looks your vision came true after all."


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Years. To start 2017 off right, here's another chapter of The Midnight Theory. Comment and follow and whatnot. Enjoy.

" _It's an absolute pleasure to meet you, Dr. Ziegler," Lena said, her hand outstretched. "I've heard so much about your work."_

_The woman known as "Mercy" smiled kindly at her. It was not often Lena saw someone descending from above, though of all people, it made sense that it was the woman who looked like an angel. With piercing blue eyes, bleach blonde hair, and a perfectly sculpted face, Dr. Ziegler was probably the most beautiful woman she had ever laid eyes upon. She felt embarrassed to only be wearing a flight jacket with her chronal accelerator; the doctor's Valkyrie suit was truly a marvel to behold, and it only became more impressive as she touched down and extended a gloved hand of her own._

" _Please, call me Angela," the doctor stated in a thick Swiss-German accent that sent shivers down Lena's spine. "And thank you. You're Lena Oxton, correct? I've read quite a bit about your case. It is great to finally meet the woman behind the miracle."_

" _Oh, I wouldn't say that," Lena said sheepishly._

" _No, it is truly remarkable," Angela insisted. "You must let me examine you sometime when I am not so busy."_

_Lena smiled for the next several seconds without answering, primarily because of the images her horribly immature mind conjured up when she heard the word, "examine." It finally took Angela speaking up to break her from her trance._

" _You're still shaking my hand."_

_As it turned out, Lena had been shaking the doctor's hand for roughly twenty-two seconds. Lena was not bothered; however, as first impressions went, it probably wasn't the best start._

" _Yes. Yes, I am," Lena laughed nervously. It took another three seconds for her to let go, and by then, Winston had already thrust himself back into the conversation. Lena had completely forgotten that he was there. In fact, he was supposed to be giving her a tour of the watchpoint, which had been going very successfully until she became distracted by the angelic thirty-ish year-old woman testing out her equipment in the medical lab._

" _Dr. Ziegler will be accompanying you on field assignments," he stated. "She's there to make sure nothing too bad happens to you."_

" _Well, I'm certainly looking forward to it," Lena said excitedly. "I'll hope you take good care of me, Doc."_

" _I'll try my best," Angela said with a sincere smile. "Now, if you excuse me, I have some kinks to work out of this suit. I'll see you later, Lena."_

_As Winston led Lena out of the medical lab and onto their destination, she walked with a noticeable spring in her step. She turned to him, enthralled, and nudged him in the ribs with her elbow._

" _You should have told me she was cute," Lena noted._

" _You're not dating her," Winston said knowledgeably._

" _Not into girls?"_

" _I think she's more into nanobiology. Also, she's ten years older than you. Also also, as someone with a lot of outside information, dating within teams is usually a bad idea."_

" _Oh, relax, Winston," Lena teased. "I'm not going to ask her out. I'm saying that as far as human beings go, she's not half-bad."_

" _Right, right," Winston nodded. "I'm sure you two will end up as pretty good friends."_

_Lena hoped he was onto something. Friends had always kind of been in short supply for her. It was hard to meet people when she lived as she did, always on the run. However, things were finally looking up. Angela wanted to examine her, which gave her the perfect excuse to spend time with her. If something else were to happen, she wouldn't have minded. But a friend would not have been bad, either. It would be very welcome indeed._

* * *

It terrified her how close the image was to her imagination. Every person stood exactly where they were supposed to be, sullen expressions plastered across their downturned faces. Lena stood away from them, a stranger among friends. Somehow, it felt wrong if she stood next to them, as if her knowledge of the present events disallowed her from feeling any of their sorrow or pain. Naturally, none of them said that to her face, but she knew deep down that they resented her, and at least partially held her responsible. Perhaps that was her own anxiety; but, as she looked onwards at her team, huddled around the broken body of her friend, it seemed obvious to her that was the case.

"Is he going to be okay?" Mei asked. She held Angela's Caduceus Staff uncomfortably, trying to control its energy as she aimed it at Winston.

"You are holding that correctly, right?" asked Reinhardt.

"I don't know," Mei said shakily. "Angela is the only one whose used this thing before. It's not like she ever taught us how it works."

"I can't believe she would do something like this," Fareeha whispered. She rested on her knees, holding Winston's paw in her hand, precisely as Lena pictured. "I know we were supposed to expect this, but…"

Lena sighed, hugging her knees close to her chest.

"We shouldn't waste time moping around," Jesse said suddenly. "What we need to do is figure out what to do with Mercy."

"Winston is hurt, you heartless bastard," Fareeha hissed. "Can't you even wait until he's stable before trying to enact revenge."

"I ain't enacting revenge; I'm planning ahead," claimed the gunslinger. "Besides, Winston is going to be fine. No point in worrying about him."

"What makes you so certain?" Fareeha asked.

"Because he isn't supposed to die yet," Jesse said bluntly. "According to Lena's vision, Winston dies in London, so unless we take a dead body into an active combat zone, I'm going to assume that he makes it out alright. Right, Lena?"

All the eyes in the room fell upon her, and in that moment, Lena felt more worthless than she had her entire life.

"I… I don't know," Lena said softly, looking down at the floor. "Maybe… I guess…"

"Or maybe Lena's vision was wrong in the first place," Fareeha stated. "How do we know you really saw the future? Maybe it's even changed from what it once was. There was no guarantee this was supposed to happen."

"That's… that's not true," Lena admitted. Fareeha went silent. "Last night, after I passed out, I had more visions. I saw Winston lying on that table, with everyone standing exactly where they're standing right now. You even said that thing about not believing Angela could do this."

Fareeha's protests quietly vanished into shock. "You knew this would happen?"

"I passed out afterwards. I tried warning Jesse, but… I didn't make it in time."

"So," Fareeha said, putting into words what was on everyone's mind, "that means that your predictions are correct. And that means—"

"We don't know that," Lena exclaimed defensively.

"But we know that you're right some of the time," Jesse grumbled. "Did you have any other visions that we need to know about?"

Lena did not know what to say. The visions flashed in her mind as vivid and clear as if they were happening right in front of her. Yet, it seemed wrong to say them, and she did not understand why. They felt oddly personal, like a dark secret about herself she had known for years. Could she bring herself to tell them? Did they not deserve to know the truth?

"Nothing else, huh? Or did you forget?"

"I didn't forget," said Lena. After all, it was impossible to forget shooting herself in the head. "I go talk to Angela, probably sometime in the next few minutes. She insists that she's innocent and did nothing wrong. And then, later... Jesse tries to shoot her in the head."

McCree was taken aback. "Why do I do that?"

"You think that shooting her will stop the future from coming true. I didn't see anything beyond you pointing the gun, but either the gun fails or you can't go through with it, because the rest of the vision is the same: We fall in London. That's all I saw."

Jesse said nothing more. With a grimace, he turned away from the rest of his team, who stared at him in horror. None of them dared to ask how he could be so willing to turn against one of his own, even after what Angela had done. Lena could not blame for that, either. She buried her face in her knees, ashamed.

"So, what exactly are we supposed to do?" Fareeha asked, struggling to comprehend the news. "Shouldn't we be able to prevent this? Can't we just not go to London?"

"That's not how it works, apparently," Lena stated. "At least, that was what Winston said. I really don't know what we can do. I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," said Reinhardt comfortingly. "You tried you're best."

Lena cradled herself tighter. She did not respond. Jesse, muttering incomprehensibly to himself, left the room altogether, while the rest of the team processed their options. She knew them well. They would not want to give up on their own future. Most likely, they would try to figure out what happened to Angela, and find steps to cure her. It would be difficult without their two most prominent researchers, but they would probably spend days rifling through medical files and looking up information on the internet, trying in vain to save the Swiss doctor. And—despite their best efforts—they would fail.

Winston suddenly groaned, and the team became alert.

"Winston? Can you hear me?" Fareeha asked.

"I think it's working," Mei said with relief.

"Keep it up," Fareeha instructed. She gently petted Winston's massive hand. "Don't worry. It'll all be better soon."

As Lena watched the group huddle closer around him, she felt something cold pierce her heart. She involuntarily hovered her hand over the chronal accelerator, letting its ever-present pulse vibrate through her skin. She gently rose to her feet, careful not to further injure herself. It was a difficult task; the migraine had not faded in the slightest (because of course the medication took several hours to kick in), the world spun around at her feet, and she could still feel the intense sensation of Angela's fingers around her throat. It took all her strength not to scream. Without a word, she slipped out of the medical lab like a shadow, and staggered through the reflective grey corridors. She did not have a destination in mind. Her feet guided her, acting on the part of destiny to move her where she was supposed to be.

For a normal person, it would take seven minutes to reach the holding cells from the medical lab. On a good day, she could make the trip in a minute and a half. But Lena was not having a good day, and by the time she stopped outside of the often seen but rarely-used holding cells, thirteen minutes had gone by, and she could hardly catch her breath. Her hands trembled as she pushed the doors open and turned on the flickering lights. Row after row of rusted bars lined the path before her, an ineffective, outdated way of keeping prisoners, a sign of their irrelevance. She followed the sound of hushed whimpers to the end of the room, running her fingers across the curved steel with every taken step. She stopped outside the last cell on her left, and peered into the shadowy chamber, which was occupied for the first time in years.

It was the way Angela trembled that affected Lena the most. The medic sat in the back of the cell, nestled tightly into the corner away from the judging eyes of her peers. Her knees were hugged closely to her chest, much in the same way Lena's were moments before, though Angela had longer legs to contend with. Her eyes were closed and her mouth contorted, yet the most noticeable feature was the bright red gash, four centimeters in length and untreated, running from her hairline to past the outside of her right eye. Her fingertips grazed the opening on her skull. With every touch, she winced and let out a pained gasp. It was difficult to gauge how much pain she was in, but considering the thickness of the wound, and the copious amounts of blood spilling over her clothes, hair, and the rest of the floor, Lena could only assume the worst.

"Angela," Lena spoke softly. The doctor's eyes shot open, moist with tears.

"Lena," she said, her voice shaking. "W-what are you… what are you doing here? Where a-am I?"

"You're in the holding cells," Lena stated, pressing her forehead against the bars. She gripped the steel tightly with both hands, partially to get a closer look at Angela's wound, and partially to stop herself from collapsing.

"My head…" Angela moaned. "What happened to me?"

"You don't remember?"

"I remember… working with Winston," she said, lost in thought. She perked up. "Did you take that medication? I told Jesse to give it to you."

"Uh… yeah. I did," Lena said unsurely. A smile flashed across Angela's face before becoming lost to the pain.

"Good to hear. At least one of us will feel better." She choked down a sob, and wiped her eyes clear. "Can you… can you let me go to the medical lab to get some gauze? I don't w-want this to get infected."

Lena studied the doctor's face. No matter how hard she tried, she could not find a trace of insincerity. The woman in front of her was clearly hurt and confused, which made the words she spoke next sting even more.

"Angela," Lena sighed, "I can't let you out of this cell."

And with that, Angela's heart shattered.

"What… what do you mean?" she asked, stunned. "Lena, I need your help."

"I'm sorry," Lena said, turning away her gaze. "I want to help you, really. But I just can't."

"Why not?" Angela asked, unable to hold back her tears. "I don't u-understand what's h-happening. I w-wake up alone in the d-dark, I can't think st-straight, and I'm b-bleeding… and n-now I'm some k-kind of _prisoner_? I don't… I d-don't understand…"

Lena was speechless. She had never seen Angela in such a state. The Angela she knew was dignified but gentle, stoic but kind, unwilling to fight but stronger than anyone else she knew. The woman before her was nothing of the sort. Maybe it was all a ruse. Maybe she was still under the strange spell that made her attack Winston. Yet, something told Lena that was not the case. Maybe, it was the real Angela after all. Maybe the stress was simply too much. She had been ostracized by her friends, led to believe that she would bring death to everyone she cared about, overworked to hell and back, and cast into the darkness, left to sit and dwell in her own agony. If that was not enough to break a person, Lena did not know what was.

"Winston's hurt," Lena admitted. Angela stared at her in a daze. "You triggered an explosion in the central hub. He's being treated by the rest of the team."

" _I_ hurt Winston?" Angela asked, genuinely hurt by the accusations. "That's… that's not true…"

"Angela—"

"No!" Angela cried through her tears. "Don't 'Angela' me! I don't care what your _goddamn_ visions say, or what any of them say. I would never do that."

Lena was taken aback. It was the first time in years she had ever heard the doctor swear.

"I'm innocent. I swear I didn't do it. I would never… I couldn't, I just couldn't…" She turned to Lena, afraid. "You believe me, right?"

Lena said nothing. Angela repeated her question, desperation rising in her voice. Lena still did not respond.

"You…" Lena said slowly, after a long moment. "You tried to strange me, Angela. You said you wanted me dead."

Lena turned away from the bars, and sat on the floor. She could not stand the sight anymore, the feeling of pure helplessness. Angela's sobbing came to a sudden halt, as her actions sunk in. She removed her bloodied hand from her head, and stared at it, unsure of how it could be capable of such an evil thing.

"I tried to kill you?" Angela whispered. "I actually… _did_ that?"

Lena nodded. "It was like you were possessed. I've never seen anything like it."

"And Winston," Angela said with a whimper. "He's hurt because of me, and I can't even _remember_ it."

"It's not your fault," Lena stated. "You weren't yourself."

Angela was no longer listening. Her words abandoned her, and she retreated inwards, trying to escape from her guilt. Lena sat in silence. She couldn't bear to leave her alone, not in her current state. Angela had always been there for her since she first joined Overwatch. She had tended her wounds, supported her through the toughest times, and treated her like the sister she never had. She needed to be there in return. It was her turn to be the healer.

"Look, Angela," said Lena, "I don't know what made you do this, but I'm going to find out and set things right. There's something more going on that we don't know about. I know you didn't mean any harm; we all think that. No matter what, you're not a bad person. And for the record… I do believe you."

She did not know why she added that last part. It was not remotely true, and hardly made any sense at all. Yet, the instant she said it, Angela's sobbing softened, and as she sniffled and brushed away stray tears, the ghost of a smile returned to her face. Realizing the power behind her words, Lena rose to her feet, steadying herself. She smiled back at her dear friend.

"I'm going to get you some bandages. It won't be easy to put them on through the bars, but I'll see what I can do."

Lena left the holding cells more confidently than she entered. Seeing Angela so distraught lit a fire within her. The woman she had known for so many years would never be capable of such horrible acts. If she was going to find someone who was, then she knew she would have to go to the source. It did not matter that she could barely stand, or if her teammates wouldn't let her leave the base; her friend was in trouble, and she was going to do everything in her power to save her, and that meant hunting down the woman responsible, even if she had to do it alone. The future of Overwatch depended on it. From that point onwards, she swore that no more visions would come to pass.

She was going to find Amélie, and she was going to get some answers.


	6. VI

New York City. A beautiful city full of beautiful people. Unfortunately for Tracer, standing on a rooftop in the dead of night listening to police radio chatter with an earpiece, it was also freezing cold, which made it rather difficult to concentrate on the task at hand. It was during times like these that she wondered why she chose only to wear a pilot's jacket over her uniform. Granted, her outfit was cozy enough for most occasions, and it suited her well in the desert, where she happened to spend an unusual amount of her time. However, it was not a particularly good night for her, primarily because her migraine had not faded as much as she liked, and—when coupled with the cold—it became very hard to keep focus. There was also the fact that it was her first solo mission since Overwatch had reformed, and not having her teammates around to protect her served as a constant reminder of her vulnerability.

The decision to leave on her own was not an easy one. She knew that there were far more advantages of working as a group than disadvantages, and keeping secrets from her team was probably not the best long-term strategy. However, she had her reasons; some were purely logical, while others were personal. Her logical reasoning was that her target would be less likely to know of her plans if she went alone, which would reduce the chance of escape. Her personal reasoning was that Winston would not have given her medical clearance otherwise, and she refused to lay down and wait as Angela suffered. She wanted answers, and after several hours of monitoring news networks and police reports, she believed she found a lead, which was how she ended up shivering on a rooftop wondering why she did not bring a thicker jacket.

It started with a police report. A thirty-year-old man attempted to murder his wife and son in a deranged fit, despite having no previous incidents of violent behavior. When interviewed by police, he claimed that killing them was a necessity for the good of the world, a phrase that Tracer was all too familiar with. And so, she listened intently to the radio, trying to hunt down any more details about the case. Of course, after spending an hour huddled on a rooftop by herself and getting nowhere, her mind began to wonder, as it did so often. She wondered if anyone had noticed that she was gone. It had been several hours since she snuck away, though it would take several more to discover her whereabouts. She thought about Angela, cramped in her cell, struggling to put together the scattered pieces of her memory.

However, what consumed her thoughts most was Emily. Tracer had treated her horribly over the past few days, and though deep down she knew it was not her fault, she still felt guilty. As she left the base, she stole Mei's cellphone, hoping to call her girlfriend and explain her problems. Yet, she realized far too late that given they were in different time zones, Emily would already be fast asleep, and the one thing she knew to avoid was waking Emily from her slumber. She planned to call her the next day, and hoped that the verbal throttling she received was not too severe. With some careful maneuvering of the English language, she was confident that she could reduce her sentence to only a single week sleeping alone on the sofa. Maybe. Potentially. If she was lucky, which given her recent history, she was not. Two weeks it was.

And then, she heard it: reports of screaming from the downtown area. Tracer steadied her hand, and went into action. Effortlessly, she zipped from rooftop to rooftop, moving at a quick yet steady pace. She was careful not to overwork herself nor the chronal accelerator; the replacement was still relatively fresh, and the last thing she needed was to accidentally warp out of space-time. She passed over the streets below, where the nightlife had only begun to take hold. Groups of smiling, laughing people strolled beneath her, unaware of the hero on her mission zipping by overhead

Within minutes, Tracer had arrived. As she leaned over the side of the building and looked at her target, she grasped her wrist firmly to stop it from trembling. The warehouse was miniscule compared to the skyscrapers that dotted the city's iconic landscape, but it was certainly large enough to hold numerous personnel. Its location was inconspicuous, dead in the middle of the city, away from the bustle of the nightlife, where no one would ever bat an eye towards it, yet close enough to the rest of the population so that it would not seem out of place. It was the perfect location to hide something, or more likely, someone. Tracer scowled, and drew her twin pistols from their holsters on her waist. She took a few steps backwards from the ledge, and squinted as she examined the distance between her and her destination.

Thirty meters, slight verticality. Easy.

Tracer dashed forward, building momentum before leaping off the edge, blinking twice through the air and rolling onto the effortlessly onto the rooftop. She scanned the area around her carefully. However, despite what she expected, there was not a single Talon guard in sight. Surely, there would be significant forces guarding the warehouse if there was something important within. Unless, she wondered, was it possible that whatever they were working on was so secretive that not even its own operatives could know about it? She walked slowly towards the center of the rooftop, where triangular panes of glass jutted upwards, serving as a window within. Cautiously, Tracer leaned into the glass, peering into the darkened structure.

The inside of the warehouse was dusty and barren, having long been stripped clean of all valuables. In the center of the emptiness, Tracer saw her: the multitude of glowing, red lights that encompassed her head, reflecting off the brilliant sheen of her violet uniform. The assassin strutted in the darkness, unaware she was being watched; she appeared completely alone, her eyes focused on the dirtied concrete beneath her boots. One hand held her weapon loosely at her side, while the other was pressed against her ear. She nodded, deep in conversation with an unseen force. Tracer leaned in closer, trying to hear her muffled voice through the glass.

"What are you doing here, Amélie?" Tracer asked under her breath. Widowmaker spoke quietly, almost as if she knew someone might be listening in to her conversation. Tracer groaned. She strained her ears as hard as she could, desperate to pick up the faintest sound. She could almost make out the words. If she could only get a bit closer...

Then, suddenly, the assassin stopped talking and became very still. Without warning, Widowmaker pointed her rifle up at the ceiling, aiming directly at the Overwatch agent. Her eyes remained fixed on the floor as she fired five rounds into the glass, each blast sending shockwaves through Tracer's skin. She did not have time to react; within seconds, the glass shattered, and Tracer tumbled through the empty whole, spiraling out of control. She landed on the hard concrete with a dull thud, her right shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. The pain shot through her like a rocket, but she pushed herself upwards, struggling to her feet. She only rose to her knees before she found herself staring down the barrel of a sniper rifle.

"I'm honestly not even surprised," Widowmaker mused, her face cold and emotionless. "You're like a cockroach. Just when I think I take you out, you somehow come crawling right back." She forced the gun further into Tracer's face, lining up her shot directly between her large, brown eyes. Tracer was unable to move, paralyzed with fear. "What's wrong? No quips? No witty comeback? You're usually so consistent with these things."

Tracer knew she needed to act quickly, but her muscles refused to respond. She was going to be shot. She was going to die if she didn't move. She needed to move. Move. Move, dammit, _move_.

Then, her muscles responded. It just so happened that the ones to do it first were around her mouth.

"Sorry to disappoint," Tracer said, grinning automatically. "I was just distracted by the unoriginality in your cockroach comparison."

Widowmaker scoffed. "Is that the best you could come up wit—"

In a flash of blue light, Tracer warped backwards through time, stopping herself several feet above the ground. She readjusted herself mid-air, and then blinked into Widowmaker, knocking the assassin to the floor. Widowmaker groaned, rolling on her side. Before she could raise her weapon, Tracer jumped on top of her. She straddled one arm, while pressing her knee into Widowmaker's elbow to prevent her from using her aiming her gun. She pressed her twin pistols against the woman's temples, and in a matter of seconds, the tables had turned.

"Good enough to take care of you, love," Tracer gloated. "Now, are you going to start talking, or am I going to have to put a hole in the side of your head?"

"As much as I love the idea of putting holes in heads," Widowmaker said, unafraid, "I believe you aren't going to get very far with them watching you."

By the time Tracer checked her surroundings, it was already too late. It was impossible for them to see them from the rooftop. The dozen people that hovered around her were entrenched in shadow, their faces concealed. They were not Talon operatives, but instead dressed in simple street clothes. She could make out distinct shapes among each of the figures: men, women, young and old. They approached her slowly, shuffling across the barren floor, their heads hung low, and an endless series of manic, unintelligible whispers emerging from their dry mouths. Tracer raised her guns in defense, but froze before pulling the trigger.

"Get back," she warned, panicked. The civilians continued to inch closer. They extended their arms, each punctuated with twitching, hungry fingers. "I'm warning you. I will shoot."

"You won't do anything to harm them," Widowmaker said with a sly grin of her own. "They—on the other hand—are very much looking forward to harming you."

Widowmaker made her move. With Tracer distracted, she threw her head forward, crashing her helmet into the speedster's unprotected skull. Tracer recoiled, stumbling off the assassin and directly into the path of a towering shadow. Before she knew what was happening, two massive arms wrapped around her torso, hoisted her off the ground, and began to squeeze. Tracer gasped as they air was carefully pressed out of her lungs. She desperately flailed her legs as the other mindless shadows surrounded her, reaching out with their wandering hands and grabbing whatever chunk of flesh they could find. They dug their claws firmly into her shoulders, legs and feet, pulling and twisting and crushing her with all their strength. She tried to raise her arms, but even if she could, she knew she would not be able to defend herself. How could she possibly fight back against innocent people?

Widowmaker rose steadily to her feet, brushing the dirt off her shoulders. "Do you like them? After the experiment with the doctor, we tried to tone down the aggressiveness… though I think she might have gone a little too far with this batch. Still, they are quite effective at what they do."

Tracer strained against the weight pressed against her chest. She thrashed her head, trying in vain to shake off the prodding fingers. A single digit entered her mouth, and she instinctively bit down hard, causing one of the hands to retract. The bitter taste of blood filled her mouth.

"What did you do to them?" she cried, wriggling in-between the oversized arms.

Widowmaker merely laughed. "Wouldn't you like to know? Now, as much as I'd like to stay and watch you die, I'm afraid I have more important matters to attend to. Have fun with your new friends." With a flick of her wrist, a grappling hook shot upwards, clinging onto the newly-created skylight. Tracer struggled as she watched Widowmaker ascend, disappearing into the night.

"Let go of me!" Tracer shouted. Her efforts were in vain. She was already in poor health before coming to the city, but now, her chances were getting slimmer by the second. She lacked the strength to free herself from the shadow's grasp, and she was too dazed from the lack of oxygen to use the chronal accelerator. There were too many scrambled thoughts in her head, too many hands grabbing her, too many things in the world to stay focused. It was hopeless. She couldn't free herself. None of her teammates knew where she was. She was going to die alone in that warehouse, without anyone by her side, any companion to help her. She never should have come in the first place. She shouldn't have tried to play the hero. She was a failure.

 _Dammit, Tracer, focus._ She was fading, but she couldn't give in yet. She couldn't let Widowmaker escape. Angela needed her. She had to fight back somehow. Tracer sucked in as much air as possible, and with a forceful scream, pulled the triggers on her twin pistols. The recoil directed the weapons up, and the legs of the shadows were taken out from underneath them as a spray of bullets scattered around her. She was suddenly dropped to the floor, and without a moment's hesitation, teleported up the roof, narrowly avoiding the flurry of arms that swiped at her feet. She rolled to her feet before taking a deep breath, trying to regain her senses. The world slowly but surely came back into focus, and Tracer quickly began scanning her environment for any signs of the fleeing assassin.

Tracer saw her vaguely in the distance. Widowmaker was sprinting across the horizon several blocks away, moving further and further out of sight. Tracer regained the element of surprise, but she would have to work fast. She could handle fast. She blinked from building-to-building, bypassing any obstacle that got in her way. She pushed the accelerator to its limit, preventing it from cooling down. It was dangerous considering her physical state, but she did not have a choice. She had to move her legs faster, move her mind faster, faster, _faster_.

And when the moment to strike came, she attacked. Widowmaker was in mid-leap between buildings when Tracer blindsided her, charging into her shoulder-first. The two plummeted down three stories into the dark alley below, crashing into the walls as they tumbled uncontrollably. The sniper hit the ground first with a snap, and Tracer landed on top of her, using her as a cushion to soften the impact. Still, she did not escape unharmed; her ribs crashed into Widowmaker's helmet, and Tracer rolled onto her back, desperately trying not to cry out in pain. She did not need any unwanted attention from bystanders or the police. Luckily, from what she could see, there were no windows on the buildings beside her, and the only opening at the end of the alley led to an empty sidewalk. Widowmaker did not move. It might have been Tracer's only chance to get some answers.

Fighting past the agony in her chest, Tracer grabbed Widowmaker's limp body and sat her against the wall. The assassin was unconscious, unaware. Tracer grabbed onto her wrist, carefully pulling out the grappling hook lodged within. Like a rope, she carefully and snuggly wrapped it around Widowmaker's torso, pinning her arms tightly at her sides. By the time the sniper began to stir, she was firmly encased in her own weaponry.

"What… why can't I move…"

"You aren't getting away this time. No one is around to save you," Tracer stated. Widowmaker glared.

"You… how did you escape them?"

"I guess I'm just craftier than you think," Tracer said unamused. "Next time, maybe you should stay and watch the person die. Leaving beforehand is a really overrated trope."

Widowmaker strained against her restraints. "You are really a pain in my ass."

"Glad to hear it. Now," Tracer pressed the barrel of her pistol against Widowmaker's blue flesh, "you're going to tell me what I want to hear."

"If you're going to kill me, I suggest you get it over with," Widowmaker grunted. "I am not talking."

"What did you do to Angela?" Tracer asked forcefully. Widowmaker kept her lips sealed. "How were you able to control her? What are you planning?"

"It's pointless. Your struggles. Your goal of peace."

"Why did you join Talon?" Tracer continued, her superiority over her captive fading with every unanswered question. "How many more people did you control? How do you cure them? Why are you doing this to them."

"Overwatch is going to die a sad, painful death, and you are going to die with it."

Tracer let out a frustrated growl, and shoved Widowmaker's head with the end of her gun. The sniper remained unfazed. "Say something useful, dammit."

"I hate you."

Tracer angrily pulled the pistol away, and leaned against the opposite wall, hanging her head low. She tore the goggles off her face, and let them fall lightly to the ground. It was futile. The assassin's head rested on its side, and her eyes wandered the littered surface beneath her, uninterested in the hero. Of course, Widowmaker wouldn't tell her anything. She never would. Her mission was doomed from the start. As she rested in the darkness, she felt something float through her mind. A string of words, long buried, spontaneously bubbled to the surface, gliding to her foremost thoughts and suddenly placing itself on her tongue. Tracer closed her eyes, and the words simply came out before she even knew she was saying them.

"Do you even remember me?"

For a moment, there was a flash in Widowmaker's eyes; a flash of shock, confusion, or amusement, or perhaps some combination of the three. She snapped back to attention, straightening herself out.

"What are you talking about?" Widowmaker asked inquisitively.

"You said that you hated me," Tracer explained, meeting her with a broken gaze. "You wouldn't say that if you remembered who I was. I just… I need to know if you remember."

"I don't understand—"

"Yes, you do," Tracer said bitterly. She could not contain the venom in her words. Years of frustration, disgust, revulsion, and anger were pent up inside her, waiting to be unleashed. And it was only then, finally face-to-face with the woman responsible for it all, that they reached a boiling point, and overtook her like a tidal wave. "We used to be _friends_ , you know. Not the greatest friends or anything, but dammit, we were _something_. We spent all our time together. You were like family to us. To me. Can't you remember any of that, Amélie?"

Widowmaker turned away. "Don't call me that."

"Why not? That's your _name_ , isn't it? You know what those are, don't you?" Tracer said scornfully.

"Amélie is dead," Widowmaker said emotionlessly.

"No, she isn't. She's sitting right in front of me," claimed Tracer. "I know you remember me. I am Lena Oxton, and you are Amélie Lacroix."

"Stop it," Widowmaker said harshly. "Stop trying to change this. Stop changing _me._ The person you want doesn't exist anymore. It cannot be undone."

"It can if you let us try," Tracer stated. "Please, Amélie, come back to Overwatch. There's still time. We can still save you."

Widowmaker sighed. If Tracer didn't know any better, she would have said she seemed sad. "There's nothing left for you to save, Lena. Not this time. Maybe we would both be better off if we forgot."

Tracer was left speechless. Was Widowmaker being genuine, or as it all just another ploy? It was impossible to tell. Her mind wandered aimlessly. Yet, she managed to regain focus when Widowmaker spoke again.

"Talon has acquired a new asset," Widowmaker said bluntly. "A hacker from Mexico. We've been able to use her talents to further some of our long-standing projects."

"A hacker?" Tracer asked. "Who is she?"

"Have you ever heard of someone named Sombra?"

Sombra? Tracer was only passingly familiar with the name. She had heard it passed around in secret, a modern-day myth. She heard of her work, her infamous ability to disclose information previously thought to be unobtainable, but Tracer had always assumed she was nothing more than a legend, a figurehead created by a group of hackers to gain notoriety. It was impossible for someone with that level of skill to truly exist, or at least, that was what she had thought until that night.

"You're working with Sombra? On what?"

"Sombra remains mostly a mystery to me," Widowmaker said vaguely. "She often keeps to herself. I don't even know her real name. But there is something that she likes to tell me. She says, 'Everything can be hacked… and everyone.' Before, she meant being able to control people through the flow of information, carefully manipulating the actions of others behind the scenes. But recently, she has found a way to be far more direct."

"What are you talking about?" Tracer pushed further, a pit rising in her stomach. "Is that what happened to Angela? Sombra… _hacked_ her somehow?"

"Angela was an accident," Widowmaker explained casually. "Sombra was meant to target the gorilla, but that girl couldn't be trusted to get the job done. Still, judging by the scarring on your neck, the doctor served her purpose well enough."

Tracer instinctively placed a hand over her throat, shamefully covering the wound. She shook away the embarrassment. Now wasn't the time. She needed to know more.

"Wait a minute," she said, cobbling together the ambiguous fragments of information she was being given. "The only time Angela and Winston were together recently was when they were at the—"

"Watchpoint," Widowmaker finished. The ghost of a smirk appeared on her face. "Maybe I remembered more things than you realized."

"But… but that's not possible," Tracer said, her voice filled with horror. "How was she able to infiltrate it?"

"The same way she's been watching you this whole time."

Suddenly, Tracer heard someone begin to laugh. The feminine snickering came from above her, and when she turned towards the source, she saw a figure start to form out of the shadows. What had previously been empty space morphed into the shape of a young woman, whose neon outfit illuminated the dark alleyway. Her mouth was contorted into a twisted grin, and she had a crazed, delighted look in her blue-violet eyes. She clung to the wall with one hand, aiming at Tracer's head with a submachine gun with the other.

"Hi."

Sombra fired wildly, forcing Tracer to dive for cover. The hacker leapt to the floor and, before Tracer could recover, kneed her in the side of her head, driving her to the ground.

Widowmaker leaned forward, trying to shake off her restraints. "A little help?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm getting to it," Sombra said, relaxed. She sauntered over and quickly went to work untying the knot that kept her bound. "I can't believe you got yourself captured. _So_ unprofessional."

"I can't believe you didn't try to save me earlier," Widowmaker shot back. Sombra shrugged.

"Well, once I realized she wasn't going to kill you, I thought there was no point in waiting anymore. Man, this knot is really tight…"

Sombra finished her work, and Widowmaker shed the chord with ease. Sombra hoisted her to her feet, and then took her hand, dragging her towards the city street.

"Now, come on! We have to go," Sombra said eagerly.

"What are you doing?" Widowmaker protested. "We won't be able to outrun her. She's the fastest woman alive."

Sombra chuckled. "Oh, you don't think I was doing _nothing_ while I was watching you talk?"

The two Talon operatives only took a few steps before Tracer recovered and—in a flash of blue light—appeared in front of them, guns drawn and ready. She was hurt, tired, and most of all, furious at being manipulated again. She could barely stand, but that didn't matter to her. Amélie had lied to her. Again. And she was sick of it. Sick of the endless chase. Sick of banter. Sick of Talon. Sick of Overwatch. She wasn't going to let them play games with her anymore. The time for being nice was over. She was determined to end it, once and for all.

"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!" Tracer shouted forcefully. Widowmaker took a step backwards, but Sombra held her ground, smiling proudly. She raised her hands above her head, and Tracer took another step forward. "I'm warning you. Don't move!"

"Relax, relax, _relax_ ," Sombra said smoothly. "You seem a little worked up, chica. Why don't we try this again…"

Sombra snapped her fingers, and suddenly, there was a flash of blue light, and Tracer reappeared in front of her, guns drawn and ready. She was hurt, tired, and most of all, furious at being manipulated again. She could barely stand, but that didn't matter to her. Amélie had lied to her. Again. And she was sick of it. Sick of the endless chase. Sick of banter. Sick of Talon. Sick of Overwatch. She wasn't going to let them play games with her anymore. The time for being nice was over. She was determined to end it, once and for all.

"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!" she shouted forcefully. Widowmaker stared at her, confused and unsure, while Sombra chuckled to herself. Tracer took a step forward. "I'm warning you. Don't—"

Wait. Something was wrong. Hadn't she already said that? Hadn't she felt that? Why was everything so familiar.

"How did…" Tracer stammered, "… how did I get—"

"Whoops. Try again," Sombra laughed. She snapped her fingers. There was a flash of blue light, and Tracer vanished and blinked back into focus, guns drawn and ready. She was hurt, tired and most of all, furious at being manipulated again. She could barely stand, but that didn't matter to her. She was determined to end it, once and for all.

"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!" she shouted forcefully. Widowmaker took a step forward, her curiosity peaked. She placed a hand on Sombra's shoulder, whose snickers had transformed into full-blown maniacal laughter.

"Did you… were you actually able to—"

"Mmhmm," Sombra nodded, pleased with her work.

"I'm warning you," Tracer threatened. "Don't move—"

And then, it hit her. She was doing it again. The same words, the same movements. Everything was being repeated. Sombra laughed hysterically, and it took only a few moments for Tracer's eyes to widen in horror, and the pit in her stomach to turn into despair. She lowered her weapons, as Widowmaker's words echoed in her mind.

" _Everything can be hacked, and everyone."_

Sombra inched closer, and Tracer backed away. Panic took over her senses.

"P-please," Tracer begged, "don't do th—"

Sombra snapped her fingers, and Tracer warped back to her original position, guns drawn and ready, all the panic that had overtaken her replaced with fury.

"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!" Tracer shouted. However, within seconds, the memories came rushing back alongside the terror, and she turned to run away. She sprinted down the empty sidewalk, running as fast as she could manage. Sombra hacked her chronal accelerator. She had power over her time. Tracer needed to escape. She couldn't possibly win against her. If she didn't leave quickly, then she would—

Snap. Tracer reappeared in the alleyway, her mind blank.

"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"

"So, your time completely resets whenever you do that, huh?" Sombra wondered aloud. Tracer recovered, and in a move of desperation, attempted to pull the trigger. Before she could, she vanished in a flash of light, and reappeared precisely where she already stood.

"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"

"Interesting. I wonder…"

"I'm warning you!" Tracer said, taking a step forward. Sombra snapped her fingers.

Tracer reappeared, her guns drawn and ready, except Sombra was waiting for her. The hacker dashed forward, ducking underneath her arms and slamming her shoulder into Tracer's ribs. In a single, fluid motion, she pressed the nozzle of her gun into Tracer's stomach, and without hesitation, pulled hard on the trigger. The bullets were met with little resistance as they passed through Tracer's flesh; not bothering to move around her vital organs, they merely pushed straight past whatever got in their way, effortlessly tearing up her insides like it was tissue paper. They exited her body as brashly as they entered, some barreling through her spine, destroying the unguarded vertebrae, while others opted to pass directly through the skin, blasting out large chunks in the process. Tracer remained draped over Sombra's shoulder as the hacker emptied the magazine of her weapon into her, her mouth wide open but incapable of producing sound. Her eyes were locked on Widowmaker's face, watching the assassin's own horror as her body was torn to pieces. When the chamber finally clicked, and the bullets had finished their job, Sombra rolled her shoulders, sending Tracer lifelessly spilling to her knees. The speedster reached down to her stomach with a trembling hand, trying to stop her intestines from spilling out of the open, bloody wound. She felt the emptiness within her body, her organs trying in vain to fit themselves back into place, but she did not feel pain. As the remnants of her blood poured out of her, the world turned dark, and her mind quietly shut down, accepting its fate.

Sombra snapped her fingers. There was a flash of blue light, and then Tracer reappeared at the end of the alley, guns drawn and ready, her wounds healed.

"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!" she shouted. Then, she remembered. The blood. The bullets. Her determination vanished.

"Wow!" Sombra said happily, leaning in close to examine Tracer's abdomen. "You are really shattering that fourth dimension, aren't you? I wonder what else we can get away with?"

Snap.

"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"

Sombra slid behind her, dodging a weak attempt at a punch, and snapped her fingers.

"Freeze! Don't move or—aah!"

Tracer yelped as Sombra crashed a knee into her kidneys, causing her to arch backwards. Sombra wasted in raising her hand, spreading out her claw-like fingers, and jamming them down into her soft, vulnerable throat. She allowed the blood to wash over her fingers as Tracer choked and sank to the floor, as they life quickly drained out of her body.

"You know, I'm not usually into this sort of thing," Sombra admitted, "but this is very relaxing: killing you over and over again. Since I can just reverse whatever I do to you, it's a great way to relieve stress. It's all of the satisfaction without any of the guilt."

Tracer reached for Sombra's face, lazily swiping her hand at the hacker, yet could not find the strength to fight back. Her hand fell limp at her side as her body grew cold, and she closed her eyes. Sombra sharply removed her fingers from Tracer's neck, and snapped the blood-soaked digits. Tracer warped back to position, but before she could speak, Sombra wrapped her arms around her, holding her in a full nelson.

"Come on, Widow," Sombra said gleefully. "I know you have some frustrations you need to take out." Widowmaker, however, did not move. She refused to meet Sombra's gaze, and spoke in hushed tones.

"You are sadistic, Sombra," the assassin muttered. "We need to get moving. Leave the girl alone."

"Aw, don't be so cold! You can pretend that she's me," Sombra teased. Widowmaker said nothing further. She stormed past them, and disappeared out of the alleyway. The hacker shrugged it off, and refocused on the hero struggling in her arms. "Well, I guess that just leaves the two of us, huh?"

"Ungh… let go of me," Tracer growled. Sombra pulled back tightly on her shoulders, and Tracer cried out in pain.

"Ah ah ah," Sombra said playfully. "You aren't going anywhere, Lena Oxton."

"How do you—"

"Know your name? Amiga, I know _everything_ ," Sombra said with a flick of her tongue. "I know you've been alive for twenty-six years, four months, and ten days. You were born in London, England. You were the youngest pilot inducted into Overwatch's experiment flight program, and an accident gave you the ability to change your own relative position through time. I know you like to eat Italian food, your favorite color is orange, and your favorite movie is _It's a Wonderful Life_. I know your home address, both your phone numbers, your credit card information, and all your relevant search history, some of which—by the way—I did not expect from someone like you. But you know what I _don't_ know about you, Lena Oxton? I don't know who this is…"

Sombra free one of her hands, and extended it past Tracer's face. Her fingers danced, and before her very eyes, a holographic image expanded in front of her. Tracer took one look at the image, and her heart skipped a beat. It was a photo ripped from straight from her social media page: an innocent image of her and Emily sitting on their sofa, wearing matching, red sweaters. They each threw up a peace sign with their fingers, and she seemed to be laughing at something Emily had told her. Sombra leaned close to Tracer's ear, as Tracer helplessly stared at the photograph.

"Is that your girlfriend?" Sombra cooed. "She is _so pretty_. You two really look cute together. Say, do you think there is a chance you could introduce me to her? I could come to your home, we could have dinner together… or maybe I could just have you say hello for me. Of course, first I would have to make a few adjustments to you. I can picture it now: she opens the door after you've spent so long away from home, she reaches out to hug you, you pull out a gun and—"

Tracer had heard enough. With a ferocious cry, she shot her arm backwards, smashing her elbow into Sombra's nose. The hacker recoiled, releasing her from her hold, and falling onto the floor. Tracer turned towards her and jumped high into the air, aiming her foot at Sombra's head.

"Don't you _dare_ talk about her!" Tracer screamed. She drove her foot downwards as hard as she could, but when she was mere inches away from landing the final blow, Sombra snapped her fingers, and she teleported once again, her back now turned to her opponent, aiming her pistols down an empty alleyway. "Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot… huh? Where did you—"

Sombra tackled Tracer from behind with a yell, slamming the hero face-first into the wall. The hacker rose to her feet first, a thin trickle of blood coming out of her nose. She lifted one foot, and began to mercilessly stomp on the back of Tracer's head.

"You sneaky, little bitch!" Sombra screeched, wrathfully ramming her boot into her Tracer's skull. She grabbed onto Tracer's hair, and pulled her face into view; her eyes were glazed over, and a notable trail of blood leaked from her mouth. "Here's a lesson for you, perra: Do not—"

Sombra kneed Tracer directly in the face, shattering her nose.

"— _fuck_ with Sombra!"

Tracer fell lifelessly to the floor. Sombra took a deep breath, and wiped the blood from her nose. She was lucky the streets were empty; otherwise, she doubted she would make it out of the city. It did not matter. She needed to catch up to Widowmaker. There was still work to be done. But what to do with the Overwatch agent? She considered leaving her in the dirt, letting the authorities deal with her. But then, Sombra got another idea, and she gave a wicked smile.

"Time for me to go, chica," Sombra said plainly. "But _just_ to make sure you don't follow me, how about I leave you stuck in a bit of a… how do you say it… a _time loop_. One that repeats, say, every three seconds. That should give you just long enough to realize what's happening to you each time, but not long enough to do anything. Well, I'm off to go pay your special friend a visit. Adios."

Sombra wandered out onto the city streets, and stretched her arms above her head. With nothing else to do, she pointed at Tracer, and snapped her fingers. There was a flash of blue light, and Tracer warped back to her feet, aiming her pistols down the empty alley.

"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"

Yet, no one was there. Tracer couldn't understand it. They were there a moment ago. Where could they have gone? Wait. Sombra. Emily. She was going after Emily. She had to do something, she had to act before—

"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"

The alley was empty. Widowmaker? Did she escape when she wasn't looking. Dammit, Lena, focus. She was repeating herself. Widowmaker was long gone. Emily was her focus. Sombra and Emily, remember Sombra and—

"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"

No one. Again. It was all happening again. Every three seconds. Every time she warped, her brainwaves reset to the precise moment they were before. The thoughts had to finish themselves, always. She couldn't escape it. There had to be some way to fight back.

"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"

Again. It was the same set of words again. Why couldn't she move? Why couldn't she think straight? Emily was in danger, wasn't she? Or was that something she had only imagined?

"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"

Again. What was she thinking about? Widowmaker. Angela. Widowmaker said something about Angela, but she couldn't recall what it was. Strange. Widowmaker just told her, but it felt like an eternity since she heard it last.

"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"

Again. Maybe if she ran. If she ran far enough, it would stop. It had to stop. It had to stop. It had to stop. Why was three seconds so short?

"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"

Again. Fight it, Tracer. Fight back. She could control it.

"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"

Again. Stop saying it. For the love of God, stop saying those stupid words.

"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"

Again.

"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"

Again.

"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"

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"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"

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"Freeze! Don't move or I'll shoot!"

Again.

Again. And again. And again. And again. And then, all of a sudden, it stopped. Tracer waited for the next loop, except it never came. A strange beeping noise emitted from the chronal accelerator. Usually, it only beeped when it was low on power, but it took forty-eight hours for it to drain its battery. Then, Tracer looked around at her surroundings. What had before been a foggy night sky was instead a deep orange haze. Sunrise? No, she realized, the light was coming from the west. It didn't seem real. It had to be a dream. All a dream. There was no way two whole days could have passed by. It couldn't be.

Tracer fell to her knees, as the days' worth of exhaustion finally caught up to her. She stared down the darkened alleyway as the memories flooded back in full force. Every painful moment buried itself in the forefront of her mind, consuming her. The chronal accelerator's beeping started to accelerate, a sign that it was shutting down. Soon, Tracer would be cast off into the ether, to drift alone until someone came to rescue her. She didn't know if she could go through that again. She was so tired. All she wanted to do was rest. Wasn't there any way for her to get some damn rest?

Well, she thought, there was one way.

And perhaps it was the fatigue of spending two days reliving the same moment repeatedly, or perhaps it was the burning memories of her torture and repeated death, but to Tracer only one option seemed perfectly reasonable. And so, with little emotion or regret, Tracer pressed the pistol to the side of her head, and pulled the trigger.


	7. VII

Lena realized she wasn't dead when the pain hit her. It overtook instantaneously and ferociously, burning through every cell in her body. It was the first sensation to strike her after what seemed like an eternity drifting through nothingness, and it quickly consumed her with little resistance. She lied in darkness, unable to move or even think as she trembled under its control. She had no idea how long she remained like that, lost in the torture. She had no idea what had become of her, how she had ended up in such a damaged state. Everything was blurred by the blackness, the agony that pumped through her veins like poisoned blood.

"Lena? Lena, can you hear me? Lena?"

Lena heard someone calling her from far away, like something out of a lost dream. She tried navigating towards it through the darkness, fighting against the crippling force intended on keeping her still. Gradually, she felt the numbness fade. At first, the feeling returned in the tips of her fingers, which felt smothered beneath something soft and tight. Next, it came back to her toes, which clenched and curled involuntarily. The warmth traveled slowly towards her center, and with it came bits and pieces of her remaining energy. As the life returned to her body and the numbness begin to subside, she heard the voice growing louder and stronger in her ears, beckoning her back into the world. She fought through the agony to reach it, channeling what remained of her strength, and even then, it took every ounce of willpower she had just to open her eyes.

When the haze faded away, the first thing she saw was the unmistakable face of a woman staring down at her, consumed with worry. Two frightened hazel eyes watched her every movement with care, bright red hair haphazardly strewn about her drained face. She was wearing a bright pink T-shirt and sweatpants, like she had been plucked from her life suddenly and didn't have time to pack a change of clothes. The woman's hand was wrapped around Lena's own, squeezing it gently, while her other hand was placed on Lena's chest, directly above the cool metal harness that kept her alive. The rest of the room was too bright to make out, but the noises in the background gave her hints: the steady beeping of a heart monitor, the distant sound of busywork from rooms far away, the gentle hum of the power system keeping on the lights.

"E…. Em—"

Emily shushed her quickly. "Please, don't speak," she said almost desperately. Her voice was hoarse, weakened from what sounded like hours of sobbing. "Just… please, don't try to speak."

Lena did not understand what was happening to her. What was Emily doing at the watchpoint? For that matter, what was she doing at the watchpoint? Why couldn't she move? Why was she in so much pain? Everything was so blurry and unfocused and agonizing, and all she wanted to do was scream, but she had no strength to yell and no voice to use. There were memories that came to her in flashes. A dark city skyline. Sharp claws digging into her throat. Warm blood running down her lips. A single phrase repeated over and over again.

A gun pressed to the side of her head.

Lena bolted upright in a panic, but immediately, a horrid sickness took hold of her. Her insides turned, and she threw herself over the side of the bed, grabbing a waste bin nearby and tightly hugging it as her stomach emptied itself of its contents. Emily was there for her, softly rubbing her back as Lena's body rejected her actions.

"It's okay. It's okay," Emily said soothingly. "Lena, you shouldn't make any sudden movements. Just lie down. It'll be okay."

Lena coughed out the remainder of the matter into the bin, her throat burning and her head spinning. She clumsily wiped her mouth with her forearm when she was finished. She dropped the bin to the floor, and collapsed into bed. With half-closed, bloodshot eyes, she watched Emily tenderly brush the hair out of her face, and breathe out a deep sigh.

"You've been out for a long time, Lena," she explained. "It's going to take a while for you to regain your strength."

"How…" Lena muttered, "How long…"

Emily looked down at her hands, struggling to find the words she needed. "It's a bit hard to tell. Mei said that you disappeared from the watchpoint without a trace. They had no idea what happened to you. They didn't know if you were dead or anything really. A few days after you vanished, they detected your accelerator in New York. But with Winston injured, it took them longer than expected to find you…"

"Em," Lena asked impatiently, "how long?"

"You have to understand," said Emily worriedly. "They did everything they could. When they brought you back into our time, you were in bad shape. By the time I finally got here, you were fading in and out of consciousness for days."

"Emily…" Lena begged. Emily sighed.

"Since you disappeared," she stated, "it's been about three weeks."

Lena didn't say anything else. She felt numb, like she was caught in a bad dream she couldn't wake up from. Three weeks. Three full weeks of her taken from her without warning. Three full weeks where Talon could continue their work unchallenged. Three full weeks of her friends worried sick over whether she would survive. Three full weeks of Angela having no one to stand by her side. Three full weeks of Emily being completely alone.

"I'm… I'm sorry," Lena choked out.

"Don't be sorry," Emily said sternly. She brushed loose tears out of her eyes. "You have nothing to be sorry about."

But Lena did have so much to be sorry about. She recalled it vividly now. She was on her knees, broken and tired and deranged from repeating the same moment infinitely, and she realized she couldn't hand the pressure. It was such a simple decision at the time. She put a gun to her head, and she tried to end it. She didn't think about what would happen once she was gone. She didn't think about what would happen to Overwatch when she was gone, or how many people would be endangered by her carelessness. She didn't care about the pain that would have befallen Angela, or the guilt from the members of her team, or the tears that Emily would have shed at her funeral. She was going to kill herself, and the worst part was that she didn't even understand why. She had acted selfishly, and if it wasn't for pure, dumb luck of her chrono accelerator running out of power, she would be gone. She hated herself for it. She hated herself for not having the courage to pull through. She hated herself for recklessly going on a mission she shouldn't have. And most of all, she hated herself for failing. She had failed everyone with her actions. How could she possibly look Emily in the eye and explain that to her?

"I have to…" Lena sputtered. She broke into a coughing fit, and Emily tightened the grip on her hand.

"You aren't doing anything," she insisted. "You are sick, Lena. You don't realize how bad your condition is."

"What's…" Lena asked in-between coughs. "What's wrong with me?"

"They're, well, they're not exactly sure," Emily said as calmly as she could manage. "When they finally found you and pulled you back, your heart had stopped beating. They said that when they found your accelerator, they noticed it had been used a lot before its power ran out. That, combined with drifting out of our time for so long damaged your body somehow. They said they never saw anything like it, and without Angela or Winston to help, it was difficult for them to even keep you alive, even with all of their technology."

"Damaged?" Lena asked worriedly, fighting past the throbbing in her temples.

"You, um… apparently suffered a seizure while you were under," Emily said quietly. It was clear that it was extremely difficult for her to talk about the subject, but she continued regardless. "You kept shouting things in your sleep. You were bleeding out of your nose, and they had to hook you up to a prototype accelerator just so you wouldn't slip out of time again. Mei finally called me and explained what had happened to you. They sent that new recruit, Fareeha, I think, to pick me up, and they flew me here within the day. When I finally saw you, you—" Emily choked down a sob, struggling to stay focused. "—you had all these tubes plugged into your arms. There were so many machines around you, and I just… I just broke down after that."

Emily took a deep breath, wiping away free-flowing tears with the palm of her hand. She wanted to be strong for Lena, but the task was becoming more impossible with each passing moment.

"You had no idea how _scared_ I was," Emily confessed, her soft words brought down to a whisper. "I don't hear from you for so long, and then all of a sudden, this happens and… I know that there was danger involved with this but… I'm sorry, I shouldn't be like this…"

Emily closed her eyes. Lena wanted to reach out to her, to hold her tightly, but her body refused to move. Her own eyes began to water, and she was helpless to stop the tears from streaming down her cheeks. After a few moments in dreadful silence, Lena tried to speak up.

"Em, I need—" Lena gasped in pain. Emily shushed her, but she ignored it and continued. "Angela… I need to see—"

Lena moaned. She couldn't even complete a single thought. She needed to see Angela. She had to tell her that it wasn't her fault, that there was someone controlling her actions. She needed to warn Overwatch about Sombra's plans. However, as Emily kept her head down and solemnly stared at the ground, Lena realized that there was something else being kept from her.

"Em? I need to—"

"Lena. You can't do that," Emily said mournfully. "Angela is… Angela's gone, Lena."

"What?" Lena asked. Angela was gone? What was she talking about? Angela couldn't be gone. She was locked in a cell surrounded by some of the greatest fighters on the planet. How could she possibly be gone?

"There was an incident right after you came back," Emily explained. "I wasn't here for it, but Mei told me what happened. She was led out of her while everyone was distracted with you. I don't really know how to explain this, but Jesse—"

That was all it took for the dread to set in. She phased out of the conversation, not needing to hear another word to know what happened. She had already seen it in her visions: Jesse, desperate to save the team, threatening Angela at gunpoint. He tried to be noble in an effort to save the future, but Angela begged him to spare her life. In the end, he could not do it; he could not sacrifice someone he had known for so long and considered such a dear friend. And in the confusion, Angela must have escaped, running away out of fear. First, Winston's attack, then Angela's plea, her self-destruction in the alley, and now Jesse's attempted betrayal. Four of her visions had already come to pass. There was only one left. She had to stop it.

Lena tried again to rise from the bed, slowly pushing herself up on her elbows, but Emily quickly forced her down.

"What are you doing?" Emily asked with concern.

"Angela," Lena groaned. "I have to find her."

"No, you are not," Emily said sternly. "You are not going after her."

"She needs me," Lena protested, yet Emily held firm.

"You can barely speak, Lena. You can't do this."

"Let me go."

"No. You are _done,_ " Emily said powerfully. Lena stopped moving and stared wide-eyed at the heartbroken woman in front of her, her face bright red and contorted with despair. "I… I talked it over with the others," Emily said with resentment. "It took a lot of arguing, but we came to the decision that it would be best if… I brought you back to London with me."

Lena could only stare at Emily with disbelief.

"You… you did what?"

"Lena, you're sick," said Emily. "You're sick, and hurt, and… you can't keep _doing_ this. You can't keep throwing your life away every chance you get."

"I can handle myself," Lena said weakly.

"Look at yourself!" Emily shouted. "What could you possibly do to help in this state? You can't even speak without getting hurt."

"Then I'll get better," Lena moaned. "I'll get stronger. I'll—ah!"

Lena let out a pained gasp. Emily sighed.

"See what I mean?" she said softly. "I know how much this means to you, how much _Overwatch_ means to you. I know you want to be a hero. But you aren't invincible, Lena. This time, you got lucky. Extremely lucky. But next time? Or the time after that? Even you can't outrun this forever."

"You don't understand," claimed Lena, her resolve starting to weaken. "I'm the only one… the only one… who can stop them. She needs me…" Lena broke down into a coughing fit. Emily simply watched her in silence, tightly squeezing her hand.

"You've done everything you can for her," Emily stated sincerely. "I get that you care. I really do. But Angela wouldn't want you to kill yourself for her. She would want you to do everything in your power to get better, to be safe. You know I'm right."

"No," Lena moaned, her voice breaking. "No, no, no… I can't… I can't leave them. They're family."

"I'm your family, too," Emily whispered. She leaned forward, resting her forehead against Lena's, as the wounded creature began to cry once more. "I can't watch you do this. I just can't. I knew when you agreed to come back that you might not come back, but I let you go because I knew it was what you wanted to do. And believe me, I am _so proud_ of everything you've done. But Lena, this isn't your home. This isn't your life anymore. Your life is back in London, with me. I know this hurts, but _please_ … do this for me, okay? Come back home."

Lena was powerless. Her words and her will had faded away, replaced with broken, uneven sobs. She fell forward lifelessly into Emily's arms, and cried into her shoulder. She felt like her heart had been ripped out of her chest. She clumsily wrapped her arms around her girlfriend, and tried her best to hang on. There were so many things she wanted to say, so many things she wanted apologize for. Yet, all they could do was sit on the bed, wrapped in each other's sorrow. Lena did not know how long it would take for her to recover. It could have been a matter of days, or it might have taken months. All she knew was that she would have someone by her side to help her through it. It pained her to leave Angela behind, but deep down, she knew Angela would have wanted the same thing. It would be up to the others to find her.

Lena only hoped they wouldn't be too late.

* * *

"Is that it?" Widowmaker asked with a dead expression. Sombra did not bother looking at her. She was too distracted by the beautiful piece of machinery several inches in front of her nose. And how beautiful it was, glistening in the neon glow of her enhancements, its perfect symmetry bringing her absolute delight.

"Shhhh," Sombra said, thrusting a single finger in the assassin's face. "You are ruining the moment."

"It's a bomb," Widowmaker muttered, unimpressed.

" _A_ bomb? Pssht," Sombra said dismissively. "This is the most important bomb in all of human history. The pinnacle of my work. The perfect combination of sophisticated modern technology and traditional brute strength. It's _so_ much more than a bomb, chica."

"You are far too enamored with that thing," Widowmaker said snidely. Sombra frowned, and placed her hands on her hips, looking at Widowmaker with disdain.

"Hey, you're the one that hired me to build this for you," Sombra chastised her. "I would think you would be happier." Sombra paused for a moment, and then shook her head. "Eh, who am I kidding? You're never happy, are you? Seriously, have you ever not been scowling?"

"Just make sure that the damn machine works like it's supposed to," Widowmaker growled. Sombra walked over to her, getting right up in her face. She studied her, curiously bobbing her head from side-to-side. Widowmaker cast her gaze away, and Sombra grinned.

"You're mad at me for something," she said. There was almost a hint of pride in her voice. "Come on. What did I do?"

"You exist," Widowmaker said bluntly. "I think that much was obvious."

"Oh, what's the matter?" Sombra teased. "Is somebody mad that they can't kill me? You know, I've been thinking a lot about something recently. It must _really_ suck to only feel pleasure whenever you kill somebody. I can only imagine how shitty your life must be. I bet it's eating you up inside, knowing that all you want to do is gouge my eyes out with your bare hands, but you're not allowed to."

Widowmaker scoffed. "Don't get overconfident. You're only around until you outlive your usefulness."

"Well, good thing I'm the only one who knows how to operate this bomb then," Sombra said with a smirk. "And who knows? Maybe after everything's done, I'll hack your mind and make you kill yourself instead. Wouldn't that be fun?"

Sombra reached out her hand, and without any hesitation, patted Widowmaker on the head. The assassin stood in silence, her arms crossed over her chest. There was no point in fighting back, no matter how much she wanted to punch Sombra in the face. The hacker walked off merrily, but Widowmaker remained in place, staring at the newly-constructed device that they had spent so much effort constructing. After months of planning, they were almost ready to take action. She should have been satisfied. She should have felt incredibly proud.

Instead, all she felt was guilt, and she did not know why.


	8. VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story goes on! Expect new chapters over the summer. Will hopefully be done before autumn. Enjoy.

Widowmaker did not sleep often. When she was normal, she remembered the feeling of bliss that came with sleep, the deep peace associated with slumber. She faintly recalled lying beside her husband, and being happy as they drifted off together. Those memories, however infrequently, would shift to the forefront of her mind at the most inopportune times, and whenever it occurred, she immediately became repulsed. In her current state, she could not fathom the idea of sleep; a process in which her entire body shut down, and all her muscles ceased to function, and her mind became dull and unalert. Sleep was a waste of time; valuable, precious time that she could have used hunting down those who opposed her, or training harder to defeat her enemies. Sleep was a poison, an unnecessary, intolerable act of which she wanted no part.

She was thankful then, in a way, that her physical enhancements eliminated most of her otherwise-distracting needs. Her body's involuntary actions had been reduced to such a fine point that she could conserve energy normal humans would waste without ever realizing. Food and water were afterthoughts, consumed only at the most occasional intervals. Sleep only came to her in brief flashes, and when it struck, it was dreamless and dark. During the late hours of the night, when the other members of Talon slept in their rough, cramped beds, she would remain awake and continue her work. Whether she tinkered with her weapons or studied her future targets, she made sure that not a single moment of her time was wasted.

So why was it that on that night, she wanted nothing more than to fall asleep?

Widowmaker had her own space in Talon headquarters, a private location where she could separate herself from the rest of the filth that made up their operation. In there, she found herself on her bed, her headgear placed off to the side and her hair flowing down past her shoulders. She blankly stared at the ceiling. Normally, her mind would be focused on the repugnant texture of the mattress beneath her spine, or the distracting ambient noise that permeated the atmosphere. Instead, her mind wandered aimlessly, drifting from one disconnected thought to the next. Despite her best efforts, she could not focus, and every few seconds, her mind returned to that damned hacker.

She did not fully understand what it was about Sombra that disgusted her so thoroughly. Perhaps she was disgusted by Sombra's appearance. As a sniper, she was predisposed to despise anything that stood out from the shadows, and so when she first gazed upon the hacker, with her flamboyant hair and bright neon outfit, she instantaneously felt her stomach churn. Perhaps it was her attitude, so careless, so immature, so unconcerned with any consequences of her actions. The woman acted like she owned every room she ever entered. She never followed instructions, she never respected her superiors, and she never treated their mission with the sincerity and the integrity that it deserved. Or perhaps it was her smile that truly disgusted her, always disingenuous, always coy and clever, hiding just as much emotion as it gave away. That smile occurred when Sombra knew something she should not have, and when she sensed weakness in her foes that she could later exploit. Whenever it appeared, followed shortly by a quip or cackle, she always felt like the hacker was toying with her, deceiving her, planning on which way to drive the dagger into her spine.

There were so many other traits that disgusted her. Her tone, her sarcasm, her track record on missions, her lack of background information, her limited worldview, her obsession with cats, her narcissism, her odor, her accent, her creativity, her political views, her energy, her talent, her mindlessness, her cockiness, her deceptions, her eye color, her computers, her ruthlessness, her cunning; all of these traits and any more she could possibly imagine were crammed inside of one putrid, spiteful, worthless sack of human flesh and bone, and the very thought of having to stand beside her drove her to the brink of insanity.

And Sombra knew it, too. How could she not? With her persistent teasing and prodding, she seemed dedicated to pushing Widowmaker to the extreme, and worst of all, the hacker knew she could get away with it. Talon needed Sombra more than anyone else to achieve their goals, and that very idea made Widowmaker sick. She could not wait for their mission to be finished so that she could kill the woman and be done with her for good. She could not wait to place the reticle of her sniper rifle directly between those big, unassuming eyes, and launch a single bullet directly into her skull. She could not wait to hear her last gasps for breaths, and the squelch of blood flying from the gaping hole in her head. It was like a fantasy, though she would be hesitant to use a term with such romantic undertones. It was merely business, business that should have been conducted long ago. It was the only reasonable solution considering Sombra's own brutality, the same brutality she had been exposed to weeks prior when the hacker tortured Lena right in front of her.

Then, there was that woman again, prying into her mind. Lena. Lena Oxton. Tracer. Only Tracer. That was the only name that mattered. Lena Oxton was a memory; no, a fragment of a memory from an irrelevant life. There was no need to keep the concept of Lena Oxton alive. It would only bring compassion and empathy, and those were thoughts she could not afford to have. It needed to be Tracer, the cursed speedster who always got in her way. That girl needed to be remembered as distrustful, not kind, troublesome while not passionate, annoying while not clever. She wasn't a human, she was a target. Not that being a human mattered regardless. She wanted Tracer dead. Tracer was the enemy, and she needed to kill her. It was good then that Sombra hurt her. She deserved to be hurt. She deserved to die.

Right?

Her face when she died for the first time. That blank expression as her torso was blown to pieces. That hollow look in her eyes as her blood poured out of her, flowing freely like the sea. That final, fleeting moment of shock before she accepted her end. And then the terror in her eyes as she was brought back, and the haunting realization that she would have to endure it all over again. It was never supposed to be like that. When Sombra told her about what she did after, leaving Tracer stranded within a single moment of time indefinitely, laughing about how the woman was driven to insanity by her actions, she knew that she should have been satisfied, but instead she felt like she had been punched in the gut. Everything felt wrong, and she did not understand why. She was designed to be coldblooded, emotionless, and yet all she could do was picture the woman she wanted nothing more than to hate screaming and crying in an abandoned alleyway, begging for death. And she felt sorry for her.

Widowmaker sat up on her bed. She needed to fix this, this horrible thing that was wrong with her. It was Sombra. That was the only explanation. Ever since that woman came into her life, she was constantly confused and irritated. To cure the symptom, she had to eliminate the cause. She grabbed her helmet from its resting place beside her and picked up her rifle, storming angrily out of her room. Knowing Talon headquarters like the back of her hand, she snaked around the compound, marching through the darkness without hesitation. She passed a few guards on patrol, and each quickly looked away, avoiding the eye contact that would certainly incur wrath upon them. Her target: the weapons storage on the ground floor of the base. A five-minute walk, though each step felt like it took an eternity. When she finally arrived, she found two guards standing watch outside, lost in casual conversation as she approached.

"There's no way that'll end well for you," one guard said with a sigh.

"You really don't think I have a chance?" the other asked with waning enthusiasm.

"Sombra is so far above your league, she might as well be in outer space," stated the first guard. "Seriously, have you even seen her? Beautiful, talented, and _smart_ , above all else. You don't deserve to walk the same planet as her."

"I get that, but still, that's pretty mean—Oh, ma'am! We didn't see you there," the guard said with surprise, snapping to attention. Widowmaker scowled as she walked past.

"Is he in here?"

"Yes, ma'am. Of course, ma'am," the guard said nervously.

"Good. I won't be long. And shut up," Widowmaker ordered. Pushing open the door to the weapon locker, she took a second to marvel at the wide arrange of guns and artillery at Talon's disposal. And endless deposit of rifles hung from the walls before her, with crates and crates of ammunition lying beneath them. She refocused, and moved deeper into the locker. She wasn't there for any of the guns. Instead, she was there for the hooded figure huddled in the back, dark smoke pouring from underneath his cloak as he tinkered with a pair of twin shotguns alone.

"Reaper, we need to talk," Widowmaker declared, stopping several feet behind him and placing her hand on her hip.

"Can't talk now. Busy," Reaper growled, his broken voice laced with discontent. He kept his back to her as he talked, focusing on his work.

"It's important," she said. "I want to get your opinion for something."

"My opinion? Can't this wait until morning?"

"No, it cannot," Widowmaker said sternly. "What do you think of the hacker?"

"What, Sombra? I like her. She's helping us take out our enemies."

"I know that," Widowmaker groaned, "but what do you think of her beyond that?"

"She's a smart girl. Talented. Useful to have around. And when we have no one left to interfere with us, she'll be one of the main reasons why."

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about, actually. See, I'm not sure if Sombra is really somebody that we can trust."

"Of course, we can trust her. She's been helping us for weeks."

"Yes, but why? Something doesn't seem right about her. I mean, let us think about this. Sombra comes to us with an idea of how to take out Overwatch. We follow her instructions to the letter without asking why, and in the end, she builds us a bomb that only she has the power to detonate, triggering a power that only she knows how to activate. Doesn't that sound the least bit suspicious to you?"

"When you put it like that, yes," Reaper admitted. "You're missing one important factor: Overwatch dies. Our enemies fall. Talon will go unopposed. That's what matters most."

"But what if she turns on us?" Widowmaker claimed. "Once she infects the rest of Overwatch, she will be able to use them to do anything we want, and we will be powerless to stop her. We let her take full control of this operation without installing a failsafe."

" _We_ are the failsafe, Widowmaker," Reaper stated. "If something goes wrong, we can take care of it."

" _If_ something goes wrong," she noted, crossing her arms. "Here is what I am suggesting: Sombra has already done her part of the mission. We should take her out now, when she least suspects it. Strike while the iron is hot. We can reverse engineer her technology after she is gone, and control it for ourselves. Take out the middle man, so to speak. Then, you and I can—"

"Out of the question," Reaper said hastily. "We are not betraying Sombra just because you have trust issues."

"Trust issues?" Widowmaker said with disgust. "Do you honestly think I am the one with trust issues."

"Well, Sombra has not done anything to betray us yet, unlike you. You were the one who left her alone with that Overwatch agent in New York, after all."

"What?" Widowmaker cried in protest. "Are you seriously going to blame _me_ for that?"

"Yes, I am," he said calmly. "You allowed yourself to get captured, and after Sombra rescued you, you left her with an Overwatch agent."

"She had the situation under control."

"Is that why she nearly ended up with a broken nose? Face it, Widowmaker: The only one here that is a danger to the mission is _you_."

Widowmaker groaned in frustration. "I cannot believe you! After everything I have done for Talon, you have the nerve to take her side in things. I am ashamed of you, Reaper. If you are unwilling to deal with this problem head-on, then I will have to take care of it myself."

The assassin turned away, when Reaper called out to her. "You're making a mistake, Amélie."

"Don't call me that," she snarled, shoving her way out of the weapon locker. Her fists were clenched tightly, and a dull throbbing made its way through her temple. She could not believe his nerve. She had always trusted Reaper's opinion, and yet the fact that he could be so blind as to what was going on infuriated her beyond belief. She marched past the guards, who had resumed their horribly cliché conversation. Widowmaker only heard it passively as she hurried back to her room to mull over the recent events.

"You are absolutely hopeless," laughed one guard.

"Yeah, well you'll see. The next time I see Sombra, I'm going to tell her exactly how I feel," replied the other guard.

"Oh, give me a break," chastised the first. "Like you honestly have a chance with our goddess."

And then, Widowmaker stopped dead in her tracks. Suddenly, the room went quiet; even the persistent ambient noise that maddened her earlier in the night seemed to come to a standstill. Her fingers twitched beside her waist, flickering towards the gun strapped to her back, as she waited in the silence. She peered out of the back of her eye at the pair of guards, who had also frozen in place, petrified by their own words. She had caught them in a slip of the tongue, and as the revelation slowly hit her, she began to scan her environment more thoroughly. It was only then that she noticed the abundance of shadows around her, and the pervasive stillness of the incoming attack, and the sense of dread that came when one was being watched. She was never supposed to notice these things, but how could she not upon hearing those words, two words that relished in one woman's egomania.

Our goddess: two words that no one would ever say about such a vile creature. Unless someone else put the words in their mouths.

Widowmaker spun towards the guards quickly as the rushed her. She reacted quickly, stopping the first attacker with a heel kick to the face. The next went for her exposed leg, but she swung her foot back around and knocked it into the back of his head, sending him crashing to the floor. Before she could react, the other guards swarmed from the shadows like a nest of hornets. She pulled out her rifle, turned to the darkness and planted herself on one knee, spraying violently into the descending mass of darkness from above and away. Numerous guards fell, but soon their numbers go the better of her. Her clip emptied before she could even make a dent. In a panic, she began to sprint towards a distant opening, but before she could move, a heavy object collided with the base of her neck, and she fell to her knees. She breathed heavily, trying to regain her balance, when she heard the loud click of a shotgun being cocked just behind the base of her skull.

"I told you that you were making a mistake."

Widowmaker said nothing to the distinct growl. She could not say anything, for she did not understand. Even as the remaining dozens of Talon guards surrounded her, and took aim at her, she did not understand why anything was happening. Even as she dropped her gun in surrender, and was forced onto her hands by the man she once considered a comrade, she did not understand why. But soon, the need to understand went away, as a twisted, high-pitched cackle filled the air.

"Man… you guys are _good_ ," the voice jeered. Widowmaker could not see its source with her eyes locked to the floor, but as she heard the metallic clank of footsteps grow closer, her heart began to race, something it had not done in a very long time. "I mean, what was that? Thirty seconds, at most? And here I thought you might not even be able to capture her."

Widowmaker examined her options. She was surrounded. One false move, and they would destroy her without a second thought. The rest of her equipment was still in her room, and with Reaper standing so close…

She was brought back to reality as a glowing blue boot appeared in front of her, and placed itself beneath her chin, forcing her gaze upwards. Sombra stood triumphantly, a big, childlike grin plastered across her face.

"Now, _this_ , on the other hand… this is just embarrassing," she moaned. "All I ever heard about you was that you were the world's greatest assassin, but when I finally put you to the test, you get beaten by no more than…" She quietly began counting the number of guards. "A whole bunch of talentless losers! I really expected better."

"What did you do to them?" Widowmaker muttered. Sombra feigned surprise, placing a single hand to her lips.

"Wha—me?" she asked timidly. The façade only lasted a moment before she burst into snickers. "It's pretty obvious, right? I noticed that most members of Talon had pretty thick skulls as it was, so I decided that I might as well fix them so they would be more useful."

"How long?"

"Right after the incursion into New York," Sombra explained. "I had to wait until the formula was _just_ right before taking the risk on your own men. The last thing I wanted was for you to find out early and ruin the surprise. Speaking of which: Surprise!"

Without warning, Sombra drew her foot back, and launched it at Widowmaker's nose. The assassin gasped as the metal struck her, and she fell onto her stomach, coughing and sputtering while Sombra laughed.

"Mmm, payback is a real bitch, isn't it?" Sombra teased.

Widowmaker grunted. "And Reaper… you infected him, too?"

Sombra sighed, sauntering over to her cloaked companion, and playfully wrapping an arm around his shoulder. He did not react, keeping his aim focused on the wounded assassin in front of him.

"No, I didn't infect Reapy here until yesterday," she stated. "It took a while to modify my creation to keep up with his deteriorating cells. But if you ask me, I think the end result turned out spectacularly. Right, Reaper?"

"Yes, Sombra," Reaper growled. Sombra patted him on the head like an obedient pup, before kicking Widowmaker in the ribs for good measure.

"Why… why are you doing this?" Widowmaker grunted, fighting past the pain shooting through her system. "Talon was good to you. We gave you resources, technology, everything you asked for. And after all that you betray us for Overwatch."

Sombra rolled her eyes. "Oh, dear lord, you still don't get it, chica? Is your mind really so limited that you can't think of anything more than Overwatch and Talon? Let me spell it out very plainly for you: I do not give a _fuck_ about either of you. As far as I am concerned, Talon and Overwatch are two sides of the same coin; a filthy, useless coin that needs to be buried as deep as humanly possible. I am interested in fighting something much bigger."

"What, the powers that control the world? The corporations? The wealthy? We could have helped you."

"I don't need your help, nor do I want it. I want to see the entire system brought to its knees. You? You would have just conquered it for yourselves. That's what people like you always do. No, we need to start over from scratch, without any vestiges from the old, corrupt world."

"So, what your plan?" asked Widowmaker. "Gain control of the members of Overwatch and Talon, and use the as your own personal army against the world?"

Sombra giggled. "You think much too small, Widow! Let me ask you a question: At any time during human history, as a forcefully militant uprising ever led to a lasting, peaceful government? Of course not. History merely views those men as aggressors. No, the revolution I want—the revolution this world needs—is a revolution of the people. The only problem is that… well, people aren't smart enough or willing enough to have a revolution of their own. But with the proper nudge—"

"You can't possibly be serious," Widowmaker exclaimed. "Any attempted coup on that big of a scale would require millions, if not billions of people."

"Then I guess it might take a while," Sombra continued proudly, "but we'll start small, and work our way up. Freedom from tyranny is worth any cost. Perhaps we'll begin by targeting a nice big city. I've always wanted to go to London."

"You call it freedom from tyranny," Widowmaker growled, "yet all I see is one vain woman making herself the queen of the human race."

"I'll free them all from my control eventually," Sombra said halfheartedly. "It's a necessary evil, but one day, we will look back at this moment and realize the sacrifice that we all had to make."

"You're insane," Widowmaker cursed. Sombra bent over, and grinned.

"That's not very nice," Sombra said happily. "We'll have to fix that."

Before Widowmaker could react, Sombra shot her hand forward, and a toxic-smelling violet gas emerged from her finger tips. Widowmaker tried to cover her face, but it was too late. Within seconds she began to violently cough, and she slammed her head against the floor, as the gas rushed through her body, flooding every system, every vessel inside of her. Sombra beamed as her greatest rival let out a pained cry, and shuddered against the cold concrete. The other soldiers kept their guns locked on her, but Sombra was unafraid, leaning in close to savor the moment.

After a few seconds, Widowmaker suddenly became very still, and began to regain her composure. Sombra grabbed the assassin by the cheeks, and pulled her face upwards. Her eyes were dead and far away.

"So, what do you have to say now?" Sombra asked politely. Widowmaker's face was blank. Her arms were numb. And yet despite the feeling that something was wrong, she felt incredibly happy to see Sombra's face.

"Nothing, goddess," she said quietly. "Nothing at all."


	9. IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again. Here's something a little different before the story wraps up. For those of you who like Mercy, here's a little something extra for you. Enjoy.

_When Angela first met Lena, she did not know what to make of her. She had studied her file well. It was a habit of hers to learn everything about a potential ally before they met, so they could develop their relationship in a far more productive manner. She was not, after all, a fan of idle time that could have been spent furthering her research. Small talk and general formalities were nuisances that she could easily eliminate if she spent her time properly. Before she ever met Lena, she spent several hours combing over her records, memorizing everything she could. She studied her military background, and her medical history, and her education thoroughly, creating a perfect, life-like image in her mind of what Lena Oxton would be like, what she would say and think._

_Of course, when she started her research, she did not expect to become so enthralled with the woman, and her bizarre affliction. When she first came across the term "chronal disassociation", her eyes lit up, and she felt her heart race as the excitement pulsed through her like a shot of adrenaline. Every word on the page, every symptom, every photograph beckoned her deeper, clinging to her mind and delivering her a euphoria she had not felt in years. How often was it that an entirely new disorder was discovered, one that warped the very fabric of reality as she knew it? Her curiosity was peaked, and she was filled the desire to study, to test, to learn truths about the world that had never been uncovered. An entirely new field of science lied just beyond her grasp, and she knew that through Lena Oxton, untold secrets would be revealed to her._

_Yet, despite her research, she was unprepared for what occurred when they finally met. She remembered the details clearly. The meeting occurred in her medical lab. She was strapped inside a prototype Valkyrie suit, working on an adjustment to add increased lift in the wings. Though they were supposed to launch her high into the air, it soon became apparent that a miscalculation somewhere caused her to ascend only a few centimeters before falling back ungracefully to the earth. That particular bug had been bothering her for over a week, but she knew she was getting close to a solution. During one of her more successful tests, she successfully flew upwards three meters, and managed to hover in place for thirteen seconds without the wings failing her. It was while she was in mid-air that the door to the medical lab open, and the woman that had consumed her thoughts for weeks finally arrived, accompanied by the great gorilla giving her the tour of the watchpoint. The girl was dressed strangely; a casual T-shirt layered beneath a dull brown flight jacket and nonmatching trousers, with a pair of bright yellow goggles resting on a mess of unkempt brown mess of hair. The only other hint of color—aside from her pale complexion—came in the form of a massive, glowing piece of machinery wrapped snuggly around her torso. The girl stared upwards at her, dumbstruck, and when Angela smiled back, the girl practically melted under her gaze._

" _And this, Lena," Winston stated, not noticing the hazy look in the girl's eyes, "is Dr. Angela Ziegler. Codename: Mercy. She's one of the foremost scientists in the field of nanobiology, and the head of Overwatch's medical division."_

_Lena outstretched her hand as Angela descended to her level. "It's an absolute pleasure to meet you, Dr. Ziegler," she said breathlessly. "I've heard so much about your work."_

" _Please, call me Angela," said the doctor, taking Lena's hand and shaking it firmly. "And thank you. You're Lena Oxton, correct? I've read quite a bit about your case. It is great to finally meet the woman behind the miracle."_

_"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Lena said sheepishly._

_"No, it is truly remarkable," Angela insisted. "You must let me examine you sometime when I am not so busy."_

_Lena grinned awkwardly at the remark. A nervous laugh escaped her throat, and her cheeks flushed. Angela only stared at her as her face rapidly transformed, from amusement, to shock, to embarrassment. Within seconds, Lena had switched among every possibility on the emotional spectrum, and yet she did not say a word, and she did not let go of Angela's hand. What was wrong with her? Was strong emotional dissonance an unquantified side effect of her disorder? Or perhaps there was some strange, perplexing thought wandering through her mind, altering her in some unknown capacity. Or, Angela realized, she could have misinterpreted her use of the word "examine", and simply had the emotional maturity of a five-year-old. That was a very likely possibility._

_After countless seconds passed, Angela finally cleared her throat, and spoke up. "You're still shaking my hand."_

_Lena suddenly looked at her own hand in horror, and let out another nervous laugh. Her gaze shifted to the floor, and her cheeks burned brighter._

" _Yes. Yes, I am," she noted timidly. Despite her acknowledgement, she did not stop shaking Angela's hand. In fact, Angela noticed her grip tighten, as if the girl was too afraid to let go. It took Winston thrusting himself back into the conversation before Lena finally released her grasp, and when she did, she tucked her hand behind her back, ashamed._

_"Dr. Ziegler will be accompanying you on field assignments," he stated. "She's there to make sure nothing too bad happens to you."_

_"Well, I'm certainly looking forward to it," Lena said, trying her best to sound excited. "I'll hope you take good care of me, Doc."_

_"I'll try my best," Angela said, trying her best to match. "Now, if you excuse me, I have some kinks to work out of this suit. I'll see you later, Lena."_

_Lena did not look any more comfortable as Winston guided her out of the medical lab. As she turned away, Angela thought she could make out a smile stretch across her face, and whatever tension was in her shoulders leave her. It was not the meeting she had expected. Lena's profile was laced with tragedy; a young girl robbed of her own existence, forced to phase in and out of reality as her own body and time itself turned against her. Those experiences would break a normal person, cause them to retreat inwards and collapse. Yet, Lena did not seem burdened by her disease at all. At that time, Angela did not know what to make of Lena Oxton, but she was very certain of one thing: her research was going to become far more interesting._

* * *

" _Well, I have to say that you are performing very well," Angela said proudly. Lena nodded in delight, her feet dangling innocently from the medical table. The doctor reviewed the results of the latest experiments carefully. Ten recalls in forty minutes. Reversed time interval: five seconds. Average margin of error for release: zero point three seconds. It was a vast improvement from only a week prior, and Lena showed no sign of slowing down. Despite her original hypothesis—that the extensive use of recall would to high levels of exhaustion, dehydration, and eventual delusion—the new recruit remained as chipper and talkative as ever. She had seemingly shrugged off all of the expected side effects, and judging by the delighted look upon her face, Angela could tell that Lena was quite pleased with herself._

_Weeks had gone by since there first encounter, and in that time, Lena had agreed to Angela's rigorous tests. Jack wanted the girl ready for combat, and though the doctor opposed the idea privately, she was not going to let her commander down. However, that did not mean she needed to relax her standards. When dealing with an illness of unknown quality, it was important to check for any possible problems that might have been caused from either the effects of disassociation, or the overuse of the chronal accelerator beyond it's normal capacity._

_And Angela checked often. Every morning at nine o'clock precisely, Lena would come to the lab in a plain white shirt and dark brown trousers, and strip down before Angela examined her, looking for lumps or lesions, irregular organ function and decreased brain activity. She would perform every physical test she could think of, from checking the reflexes in her knees to forcing her to take numerous CT scans to check for unnatural growths. Then, after all Angela was sure that Lena was not about to suddenly drop dead, she made the girl run a few experiments with her accelerator, and then repeated her tests before sending her away to complete other parts of her training with Winston. It was a long, complicated process that many Overwatch agents completed before, though never with the same level of scrutiny._

_It was that reason why Angela continued to be so impressed with Lena Oxton, not just for her continued excellence of physical health, but because during all the tedious body searches, scans and prods, she never once complained about any of it. She simply stayed composed and confident, responding to every order from the doctor with passion and respect, as if it was a matter of great pride. Every day, she came to the lab and pushed herself harder than the day before, and every day, Angela found herself more and more fascinated with the girl stuck out of time._

" _Does that mean that I can try to recall faster now?" Lena asked hopefully. "I think I'll be able to just fine."_

" _Let's not rush things," Angela said sternly. "These results are good; much better than I would have thought possible. But your health is the foremost concern, and I am not taking any chances."_

" _Aw, come on, Mercy," Lena moaned. She threw herself backwards onto the bed, pouting and staring aimlessly at the ceiling. Angela hid a knowing smirk; Lena only ever called her by her code name when she wanted to tease her. "I know I can do it. Ten recalls in a quarter of the time. Can't you let me try just this once? I promise I won't break anything."_

" _You mean aside from your own body?" Angela asked passively._

" _Oh, you're no fun," Lena said with playful anger. "You need to relax some of these regulations. I don't need to be tested one hundred times a day for the common cold, and I don't need to drink a glass of water before every time I use the accelerator."_

" _It's important to stay hydrated."_

" _My point is," Lena continued, "I'm capable of a lot more than you think I am. Winston thinks I can do more. Ana thinks I can do more. Jack thinks I can more. I just want you to give me that chance to show you what I'm really made of." Angela placed her notes down on a nearby counter, and casually began rummaging through a metallic drawer beneath her until she found her stethoscope. She casually walked over to the table and tapped Lena on the shoulder, beckoning her to sit up straight._

" _Of course, I think you can do more, Lena," Angela said calmly, placing the round disk firmly against her chest, just outside of the accelerator. "You have managed to defy every expectation I had, and I am incredibly proud of what you've managed to accomplish in only a few short weeks. In fact, I might even say that you are almost mission ready, and I am sure that Jack would say the same. However, Jack Morrison is not the one who has to worry about your health, and he especially does not have to worry about any of the limitless things that could go wrong when working with experimental technology. I've been doing this for a long time, and if there is one thing I have learned over the years, it is that it is better to be thorough. I understand that's hard for you to do anything slowly, but you need to trust me on this. It is for the best."_

" _So, what you're telling me is that you've never once done any crazy practical jokes in medical school?" Lena said with a grin. Angela rolled her eyes, and moved her stethoscope to Lena's back._

" _Oh, please…"_

" _You never did anything wicked, like swap one patient's head for another's, or steal the skeleton from the classroom, or nothing like that? You just studied in your room all day, playing by the rules, eating your fruits and vegetables? I think your problem is that you need to cut loose every once in a while."_

" _I'm being serious." Angela tucked away the stethoscope, and held out her fists, sticking out two fingers in each hand and pointing them at the ground. "Squeeze as hard as you can."_

" _I'm being serious, too," Lena said with a small laugh. She followed Angela's instructions wholeheartedly, yet never took her eyes off of the doctor's face. "I feel like I know nothing about you. I see you every day, and all you do is stare at your notes and take a bunch of measurements. There has to be more to you than that. What's the real Angela Ziegler like? What does she like to do for fun?"_

_Lena released her grip, and satisfied with the result, Angela moved onto her next test, shining a bright light into Lena's pupils, nose, and ears._

" _What I like to do for fun isn't of any importance," the doctor said dismissively._

" _It is to me. I can't not know anything about you," Lena said defiantly. "There are tons of things I want to know about you. What kinds of movies do you like? What's your favourite band, or your favourite food, or your favourite season? What zodiac sign are you? I won't go through life without getting to understand the people I meet. My brain won't let me. I was hoping you could tell me these things, and maybe…" Lena paused, and took a deep breath. "Maybe you'll be willing to tell me them over dinner?"_

_Angela, in the middle of examining Lena's right ear, stopped moving. The room fell silent, with the only noise coming from the test subject as she awkwardly squirmed around in her chair. The doctor remained frozen for a few moments, taking in the request in full, until she finally sighed and turned Lena to face her._

" _Is that what this whole conversation has really been about?" she asked with a warm smile._

" _Well, not the whole conversation," Lena blushed. "I didn't plan for it to end like that, but it kind of just… segued over there."_

" _I see," said Angela calmly. "And you honestly thought the best time to ask to take me for a romantic dinner was while I was giving you a physical?"_

" _Wha—I never said anything about it being 'romantic' at all," Lena stuttered. "And truthfully, I've been meaning to ask you for a while, and the best time never really came up, so… what do you say?"_

_Angela stared into Lena's darker eyes, and despite all the bravery involved in actually asking the question, all she saw was nervousness. The younger woman clearly put a lot of effort into it, and in a way, it was admirable. It was rare that someone would be so upfront about their feelings, especially given the circumstances. She did not doubt that Lena would make an excellent girlfriend; she possessed all of the right qualities to make any person happy. In the end, it was not a very hard decision to make. Angela opened her mouth, carefully selecting her words, and Lena leaned forward with anticipation._

" _I'm flattered," Angela said sweetly, "but, I'm afraid I am going to have to turn you down."_

_Lena's hopeful exterior cracked. Angela saw the excitement fade from her eyes, and the girl quickly looked away, forcing through a smile to hide her embarrassment._

" _Oh."_

" _Don't take it the wrong way," Angela added. "It has nothing to do with you. I try not to get to close to any of my co-workers. It makes things too complicated."_

" _I get it," Lena said quietly. "I probably shouldn't have tried to pressure you. I'm sorry for asking."_

" _Don't feel sorry. At least you were confident enough to ask me, which is more than many others are willing to do. Confidence is something you're going to need if you are planning to be an Overwatch agent."_

" _So, wait," Lena asked, confused, "that doesn't make you uncomfortable at all? It doesn't feel awkward? Because I feel awkward right now, and I'm not the one who just got asked out by their patient."_

" _Not at all, for a few reasons," Angela explained calmly, taking a reflex hammer from a nearby drawer and dropping beside Lena's knee. "First, and most obviously: I already knew you were interested in me."_

_Angela whacked Lena with the mallet, and her leg kicked out as a jolt ran through her body._

" _How did you—"_

" _You tend to wear your emotions on your sleeve," said Angela. She muttered, "That, and Winston might have said something about it…"_

" _That damn dirty ape," Lena groaned with frustration. Angela whacked her other knee, and it responded in kind. The doctor, satisfied, put the tool to the side and took Lena's leg in her hands, bending and stretching it to her whim._

" _Secondly," the medic continued, "you're not the first patient who has asked me on a date. You're not even the first member of Overwatch to do it."_

" _Really? Who else?"_

" _Patient-doctor confidentiality. And that is the third thing: my job is to make sure you stay healthy. That means I check your wounds, but I'm also supposed to make sure you stay mentally healthy as well. Keeping your feelings suppressed can lead to all types of psychological problems that you cannot afford to have, and so it is in everyone's best interest that you remain honest and open with me at all times. As long as you're in good health, I'm satisfied. Is that alright with you?"_

" _No, no, its fine," Lena assured her hastily. "Really, it's fine. I am more than happy to stay friends. More than happy. As long as you're satisfied, I mean."_

" _Good to know. I'm glad that we've gotten that out of the way. But there's one last thing you need to know," Angela said, leaning in close to the subject's ear. She felt her warm breath against her neck, and felt her shudder underneath her. "I really appreciate you telling me this. Honesty can sometimes be hard to come by around here. Thank you, Lena."_

" _Oh, it's… it's nothing, really… that's what friends do, I guess."_

" _I guess so. And you were right about one thing: I probably do need to relax a little bit. It might not be a date, but I was thinking that tomorrow, I could let you try some more—how do you say—risky experiments with the chronal accelerator."_

" _Seriously?"_

" _Seriously."_

" _Um, wow. Okay," Lena said in disbelief. "Not what I was expecting, but thank you, Dr. Ziegler—I mean, Angela."_

_The doctor moved away from the girl, and placed her hands on her hips, a satisfactory grin placed on her face. In terms of letting someone down easy, she was relatively proud of herself, despite her inexperience in the subject matter. Hopefully, it would not be an issue for any longer, and her work could continue as planned, now that Lena was far more understanding._

" _Glad to be of assistance," she said happily. "Now then, this is probably going to sound very weird given the context, but I'm going to need you to strip."_

* * *

_Angela would never forget the battle of King's Row. In all her years working for Overwatch, she never brushed with death on so many occasions in a single day. From the moment she touched down in the streets of London, she was assailed by fury and gunfire on all sides. The omnic forces of Null Sector were overwhelming in their quantity; for every one that fell in combat, ten more just as strong would take its place, and each was infused with a purpose to kill any human it came across. The hail of bullets was so deafening that she could not hear herself think, and the smell of ash and smoke filled her nose and polluted her senses. It was as bad as Jack said it was; a peaceful city turned into Hell on Earth._

_Yet, despite the ever-ensuing chaos, she was never concerned with her own safety. Instead, her fears were focused on her three teammates, who charged headlong into battle against the endless stream of omnics. Her job was support, which meant that she was forced to watch her comrades endanger themselves over and over again, while she did everything she could to keep them alive. Her job was never an easy one, but it was on that mission that she felt the pressure begin to reach her. The enemy was ruthless, and by the time she had finished healing one ally, another was thrust into danger. Still, they pushed forward, holding off the first wave of omnics as they marched forcefully down the streets of King's Row and into enemy territory. Reinhardt kept them protected with his barrier, which cracked and strained under the torrential storm of bullets, yet never faltered. Torbjörn blasted away with his rivet gun from behind cover, and scanned his surroundings constantly for a location to place a defensive turret._

_And then there was Lena Oxton, or "Tracer" as they had come to call her. She was the true source of Angela's concern. It was her first field mission with the rest of Overwatch, and she had not a single second to relax before she was thrown into the open fire of war. Angela had been with her for only a few months, examining her, testing her, training her for combat. She knew firsthand that Lena was more than a capable fighter, and could hold her own with even some of their toughest warriors. Still, those fights were in a controlled environment, against a foe that was holding back. Null Sector would not treat her with the same level of respect, and would not stop until she was brought to her end. That kind of pressure would get to anyone, and Angela was not confident that Lena would make it back to the watchpoint unbroken, whether it was her body that broke, or her mind._

_It was strange then that, when the team finally had a moment's reprieve from the fighting, and Angela looked over to the new recruit, she did not see any fear. What she found, much to her surprise, was Lena grinning more confidently than ever before, her determined eyes staring towards the danger, her pulse pistols charged and ready. It was a look of delight, of adrenaline caused by the intensity of the situation in which they found themselves. As Reinhardt stopped momentarily to rest, she moved forward, practically daring the rest of the terrorist cell to face her all by herself. Under normal circumstances, Angela would have been deeply concerned. Usually, she would have attributed such behavior to shock and trauma, and would have wrestled Lena back and forced her to go back to the drop zone. However, Angela sensed that was not the case. It was something else more powerful, something that energized her and drove her towards danger while the others ran from it. Many months later, Angela would finally realize what it truly was that pushed Tracer onwards that day: after so many years, she finally found somewhere she belonged._

_When the reinforcements came, the speedster did not retreat behind Reinhardt's shield with the others; discarding her own safety, she dashed forward as fast as she could, blinking around enemy gunfire effortlessly. She sprinted up the sides of building as bolted across rooftops in a flash of blue light, all while unloading her pistols into the large, metallic husks of the dozens omnic forces. Angela watched in amazement as Lena took them down one-by-one, overloading their senses with a rapid assault so quick that their sensors could not keep up. Their bodies ruptured and exploded in turn as Lena circled them, laughing and taunting and hollering all while maintaining her relentless attack. Before the rest of the team could do so much as lift a finger, the next wave had already fallen, and Tracer stood over the heap of scrap metal, victorious and unharmed._

" _Looks like these omnics' strategy is really starting to… fall apart," she said with a triumphant laugh._

" _You didn't actually say that."_

_Jack Morrison took a large swig of the beer in his hand. Lena Oxton, standing atop the desk in his office and posing victoriously in the moonlight, pouted and groaned._

" _Well, I meant to say it," she contended, "and I really did take out that entire wave by myself."_

_Angela shook her head and sighed happily. The strike commander's small office was packed to the brim with Overwatch agent, each with a drink in hand and a look of merriment plastered on their face. Every drink was different—from Jack's beer to Ana's white wine to Winston's banana smoothie—but each was consumed with the same level of enthusiasm. The entire room was buzzing, and despite the late hour of the day, it seemed like the festivities would never end. There was plenty of reason to be excited, after all. Overwatch had saved London from Null Sector, earning itself the first major victory in nearly a year after a series of disastrous PR scandals. It was just the mission to remind the world what they were capable of, and it was all thanks to a young, time-traveling recruit, who danced around on the commander's desk and towered above the rest of her comrades, all while still wearing her small blue cap._

" _You're telling me that you took out two dozen—"_

" _Three dozen."_

"— _three dozen heavily armed omnic soldiers all by yourself in the span of a few seconds?"_

" _Hey, that she actually did," Torbjörn said with pride, a large drink in each of his massive hands. "I saw it with my own eyes. She blasted those damned machines apart like they were tissue paper."_

" _See, I told you!" Lena shouted gleefully. "I was all like, 'Freeze, omnics!' And they were all like, 'Resistance is futile!' So, then I was all, 'Pew pew! Pew pew! Pew pew!' And down they went."_

" _That's pretty impressive for a new recruit," Ana noted. "I think you found a good one, Jack."_

" _I think you might be right," Jack responded. "Of course, she's still young. We should probably have Angela run some more tests just to be safe."_

" _No! No more tests!" Lena protested. "Heroes don't have to get tested. Right, Angela?"_

" _She has a point there, Morrison," Angela laughed._

" _And she's certainly a hero to me," Reinhardt added. "She saved my butt from the omnics more times than I can count."_

" _Aw, thanks, Reinhardt," Lena cooed. "You guys are the best. Seriously, the best. You all deserve this victory, each and every one of you. Without you guys, I don't know what I would do. Cheers, everyone!"_

" _Cheers!" came a resounding cry from the rest of the room, and the drinks were down with haste and pleasure. The only person to abstain from the act was Angela, who had remained by the door for the entire celebration, pressed against a wall and watching from the sidelines. In a way, she almost felt like an outsider looking in at the joys and victories of a group of close friends, but she liked to think otherwise. She was never one for parties; as much as she hated to admit it, Tracer was correct in assuming that she spent most of her days in university studying in her dorm. Large social gathering simply never appealed to her. Despite her preference to keep to the side lines, she did not mind watching the others have their fun. Lena, in particular, deserved to have it. Months of hard work finally paid off, and she could not have been prouder of her patient._

_It was at that precise instant that her phone started to vibrate in her front pocket. She removed it absent-mindedly, her attention focused on Lena as danced and posed on top of the desk, and answered it with a basic, "Hello."_

_The voice on the other side talked to her in monotone. When it began, Angela did not pay much attention to the actual words. But, as it continued to drone on, and her mind slowly comprehended the information it just obtained, her smile began to fade, and the grip on her phone tightened, and she felt all of the air escape from her lungs. Angela quietly slipped away through the office door, and walked down the corridor to the medical lab. As she walked, the voice kept going, and she did not respond in any way. She merely listened to the voice, her mind blank, her feet moving independently, guiding her to her familiar home in the watchpoint. Several minutes passed, and she reached the door to the lab. She gently thanked the voice on the other end of the phone, hung up the call, and stepped into the lab. Once inside, she walked slowly to the medical table, sat on top of it, and rested her chin on top of her palms. She sat in pure silence for what seemed like an eternity, lost among her own thoughts._

_In hindsight, Angela did not know why she became a doctor. She had always told herself that she became a doctor because she saw injustice in the world, and it was her duty to fight against that injustice while others could not. When she made the decision to join Overwatch, she believed it was for the same reason. And yet, she did not know if she ever believed herself. Sure, she told herself that she wanted to help others, but did she truly believe it? What if something else drove her, something darker, something more sinister and vile? Something that she did not want to believe in, and so she lied to herself repeatedly, desperately trying to trick her mind into believing she was something purer than she truly was? Perhaps she became a doctor because she wanted the money, or the thrill of the danger, or the fame and glory. Perhaps she had worked so hard to convince herself she was an angel because she was trying to contain the demon that lived inside of her all along. She dedicated her entire life to understanding the plights of others, and the truth was that after all those years, Angela still did not understand herself, and that terrified her more than any omnic ever could._

_She did not know how long she had been sitting at the table when she heard footsteps down the hall, and the door suddenly propped open to reveal Lena's slender frame poking into the lab._

" _Oh, there you are!" she said with delight, stepping inside. "I've been looking everywhere for you. You're missing the party. Jesse just started breakdancing. You need to come see it."_

" _I'll be right there, Lena," Angela said somberly. "Just give me a moment."_

_Lena only needed a passing glance to know that something was not right. She gently shut the door behind her, and took a cautious step forward._

" _Is everything okay?" she asked worriedly._

" _Yeah. It's fine," Angela said dismissively._

" _What? What is it?" asked Lena. Her body tensed up, and she took another step forward. Angela took a deep breath, and stared blankly at the floor._

" _I, um…" she said slowly. "I just found out that my mother passed away."_

_Lena stopped dead in her tracks, and fell silent. Angela pulled her legs onto the table, and hugged them close to her chest. Her eyes started to water, but she managed to fight back the tears._

" _She died a few hours ago. Aneurysm. Nothing the doctors could do," Angela explained in mumbles. "I had always looked up to her when I was a child. She was the one who inspired me to get into medicine, and now… I can't believe that she's actually gone…"_

_Lena stood motionless in the center of the room, as Angela collapsed into herself. It took her a few seconds to adjust, but soon her feet moved from underneath her, and her arms stretched outwards, and before Angela could react, Lena did the only thing she knew how to do, and pulled her into a tight hug. Angela rested her head upon the younger woman's shoulder, and the tears fell softly down her cheeks._

" _I'm so sorry," Lena whispered. "I am so, so sorry about your mother. I know what that's like, losing someone you care about and… I just want you to know that I'm here for you. Whatever you need, I'm here for you."_

_Angela sobbed quietly, clinging to Lena for support. The two remained together for the rest of the evening, lost in each other's embrace. It was the most they could do for each other, but Angela did not mind. She did not want to be alone. She had no idea what to say to Lena, but something told her that the recruit did not care. She simply wanted what was best for her, and in that moment, what was best was to let her emotions finally come free. It was precisely what she needed, and Lena made sure to provide it. That night, Angela felt more confused and scared than she had felt in years, but one thing had made itself certain: Lena Oxton truly was full of surprises._

* * *

Angela stood in front of the doorway, her body cast in shadows. The black hoodie hid her face from ever-watching eyes, and she kept her gaze downwards to avoid unwanted attention. Her emotions had taken the better of her over the past several weeks. Hurting her friends, being threatened by Jesse, running away from Overwatch: all had taken a severe toll on her psyche. Yet, as she stood in front of the doorway, fist hovering in the air, she felt nothing but determination. It was her one chance to try to make things right. Despite her fear and her paranoia, she knew that she had to take it. She took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. It was Angela's turn to be there for her.

She knocked on the door three times, her fist loudly crashing into the stained wood. She waited patiently outside, until the door finally opened, and a youthful, red-headed woman appeared, worry and confusion marked across her face. She looked just like she did in the pictures.

"Emily?" Angela asked.

"Yes?" replied the young woman nervously.

"My name is Dr. Angela Ziegler. It's a pleasure to finally meet you," stated the doctor. "I need to speak with Lena."


	10. X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy July. Down to the last few chapters. Hope you like sadness. Enjoy.

Lena always knew that it would be hard to say goodbye. Since the first day she stepped foot in the watchpoint and officially joined Overwatch, she realized that she had finally found the place she truly belonged. Her teammates had become her family, and the thought of leaving them behind was one she could not bear. When Winston sent out the Recall, and she strapped on her goggles, it was like she woke from a long, deep slumber, and thrust back into a world of adventure and passion that she had long forgotten. And though it was tough straying from her new life with Emily, the sheer euphoria of saving lives made it all worth it, and with each passing day, she knew it would become harder to return to the mundane.

Yet, when it was finally time to leave, Lena did not have a choice. As she sat motionlessly in the old, rusted wheelchair, caught in the entryway to the watchpoint with Emily standing behind her, ready to take her back to the strange land called "Home", she felt something bubble and churn within her. It stood out sharply from the dull, constant pain in her head, and the numbness in her fingertips, and the heaviness of her useless limbs. It was—she believed—a cry desperate for release, a simple plea to remain in the one place she ever truly understood. But, her voice had long since been drained by her wretched affliction, and the words could not escape her lips.

For the other members of Overwatch, however, the words flowed easily. Each took their turns saying their goodbyes, and bestowed her with a small present, a token reminding her to get well as soon as possible. Fareeha gave her a medal she had earned during her service in the Egyptian military, and thanked her for saving her life on their mission to stop Talon. Genji gave her a book detailing the teachings of the monk, Zenyatta, and recited her a brief lesson about overcoming one's personal tragedies through balance and determination. Reinhardt gave her a teddy bear engraved with a large, red heart, and had to be torn away from her so that he would crush her with his massive embrace. Mei gave her a bright blue scarf, tenderly wrapping it around her neck. McCree, still shunned by the others for allowing Angela to escape, was allowed a brief goodbye, and simply rustled his fingers through her hair without saying a word; it was the sweetest gesture she had ever received.

Winston was last. Still injured and wrapped in bandages, he hobbled his way over to her, and strained as he handed her a final parting gift: a large tub of crunchy peanut butter.

"To remind you of sweeter times," he had said somberly. A pained laugh escaped Lena's throat. She struggled to hold back the tears. "Don't worry. We'll find Angela. Whoever this 'Sombra' is, she won't get away for long."

"We're running tests to find how she was able to control people's actions," Fareeha stated. "We've already found a strong lead: prototype nanobiology developed by the Vishkar Corporation, the same technology Talon stole a few weeks ago. Once we collect our data and figure out how it works, we can reverse engineer it, and hopefully develop a cure in a couple of days."

"So, don't worry about it. We've got this," Mei added comfortingly. "Focus on getting better. Everything will turn out fine."

"Exactly," said Winston confidently. "You've sacrificed so much for us, Lena. We can't put into words how thankful we are for everything you've done. And whenever you are ready, just know that Overwatch will always be waiting for you with open arms."

Lena could not help but smile. She had been through so much in such a short time that it was difficult not to get emotional; tears of laughter could so easily turn into sorrow. However, before she became swept up in the sadness once more, Emily stepped in and broke the silence.

"Thank you all, for everything," she said warmly. "I'll make sure to keep you updated on her condition. She'll be back before you know it."

Lena did not have the strength to say goodbye on her own. When Emily took her away, the most she could manage was a subtle flick of her fingers, the crudest wave she could muster. Even then, the sudden rush of pain was overwhelming. It was harsh enough to lull her to sleep, where body would become numb, even as brutal dreams kept her in a state of constant torment. Still, it was the more comforting option, and during the long journey back to London, she slept constantly, either tucked away in the leathery seat of a car, or nestled next to Emily on a speeding aircraft. Emily must have been keenly aware of this, Lena thought, as every time she would begin to stir, she was hushed and quietly put back to rest. The only time in which she was conscious was when Emily guided her up to their flat, and lowered her into their bed.

It had been days since she said goodbye to Overwatch, yet it felt like months. When everything hurt as much as it did, every moment felt stretched out into eternity. The hours blended together as she lied in bed, kept away from the light and barely able to move. She had little to do to pass the time. Originally, Emily brought the television into the bedroom, but quickly took it away once she realized that the bright lights worsened Lena's migraine. Music helped somewhat, and thankfully they were in no short supply, but more often than not, Lena was left alone in silence to rest. Emily checked on her frequently, either bringing her water to stay hydrated, or extra blankets in case she got cold, or asking whether she needed to use the bathroom, a process that had become unnecessarily convoluted. Lena always knew she was lucky to have a woman like Emily by her side, but she never truly realized how incredible she was until then. She only wished that she had the power to tell her that.

It was not until several days until she could move on her own, and even then, her limbs strained and ached constantly, limiting her actions. With enough effort, she could successfully raise herself into a sitting position. If she forced herself, she could even stand, although she could not take more than a couple of steps without collapsing from exhaustion. Emily kept track of her progress, documenting each day with her phone and sending video reports back to Winston. The red-haired woman tried to make the most out of it, adding playful narration over the mundane footage of Lena lying helplessly in bed, trying her best to make her love laugh, though it always came out as nothing more than a wheeze. It was not until a week since returning home that her voice finally returned to her, and even then, it was thin, raspy and lacking in color. Still, she regarded it as an improvement, as it meant Emily could wait for her call instead of constantly checking up on her.

Eventually, Lena began to settle. The pain, though nagging, vanished little by little every day. Her legs became stronger, and she could manage to walk around the entire flat without falling over. Emily weened her off liquids and back onto solid foods, although her diet remained severely limited to rice and plain, alphabet-shaped noodles. She turned the light on in her room, and started to catch up on television, starting with ten minutes every day and working her way upwards. It was not perfect, and she was not expecting it to be. Despite her insistence, Emily would not let her leave the home, and Lena would spend hours staring out the window, watching cars zoom by on the busy streets, wishing she could chase them down like a dog on a hot summer's day. She could not speak for long periods of time without her throat starting to burn, and standing upright for more than a few minutes caused her to get extremely nauseous. And of course, there were still the nightmares, which caused to wake up in a cold sweat and lunge into the comfort of Emily's arms on a nightly basis. Yet, there was some small improvement, and as long as her more serious symptoms did not reappear, she remained casually optimistic.

Winston called two weeks into her recovery. Emily answered initially, but after enough silent pleading and a pair of puppy dog eyes, the redhead relented, and handed over the phone to the former agent bobbing up and down on her bed like a teenage schoolgirl.

"Hey, buddy, how are ya?" Lena chirped. Despite the innocence of her words, they came out hoarse and broken, and Winston chuckled at the contrast.

"Well, you sound much better," he said happily.

"Yep. Feel good as new," Lena sighed. "Guess what I almost did today?"

"Stand for more than ten seconds?"

"How did you know?" They shared a laugh together. Out of the corner of her eye, Lena saw Emily roll her eyes and walk out of the bedroom.

"In all seriousness, I'm glad to know that you are feeling better. We're all rooting for you," Winston said earnestly. "Although, that brings me to why I called. I wanted to talk to you about your accelerator."

Lena looked down at the piece of machinery wrapped around her chest. She had not attempted to use it since New York, and with good reason. It did not look any different than normal, and it did not sound any different than normal, but she felt in her gut that something was not quite right.

"What do you want to know?" she asked curiously.

"First of all, you haven't experienced any symptoms of disassociation, have you? You haven't been experiencing time dilation, or any sense of warping or displacement?"

"Nothing like that. Mainly, just a lot of pain," Lena grumbled.

"Okay. And you haven't attempted to  _use_  the chronal accelerator at all, correct?"

"I can barely walk, Winston," Lena stated. "I'm not going to try blinking or recalling anytime soon."

"Excellent. Now, pay attention: Whatever you do,  _do not_  attempt to use the accelerator for any reason."

"Why not?" asked Lena, concerned.

"Well, before you left, we took scans of the accelerator to assess the damage done by Sombra," Winston explained. "As it turns out, whatever she did to access the hardware left the systems much worse off than we previously thought. Primarily, it seems that the bug she planted in New York is still there, and we can't seem to get it out. It's currently resting, but it looks like any attempt to use the accelerator might trigger it, and cause you to get stuck in another time loop. That's bad in and of itself, but it's mostly avoidable. Unfortunately, there's something more worrisome: The accelerator's core is gradually becoming unstable."

"Unstable?" Lena asked, staring down nervously at her chest. "Is it dangerous?"

"Not at the moment," said Winston. "The core's decay is happening slowly, and is mostly contained, so you and Emily shouldn't be in any danger as long as you don't put any additional strain on it. However, if the core continues to decay, you may start experiencing some major problems."

"What kind of problems?"

"Well, we don't know for certain, but we have some ideas, none of them very good. The best-case scenario is that you lose your ability to track time regularly. Aside from not being able to discern minutes from hours, it could potentially lead to all sorts of other issues with your memory and awareness. At the absolute worst, you would probably barely be able to move, as your reactions would be either vastly delayed or sped up significantly, and your thoughts would become so disjointed that you lose all sense of yourself as a person."

"And… that's the best-case scenario?" Lena asked incredulously.

"Compared to the worst-case scenario, yes," Winston said somberly. "See, as the core breaks down, so does the system's chronal radius. The chronal radius is the area that the accelerator actually affects. Currently, the radius is calculated to match your exact form, with a few centimeters of give added for good measure in a couple places. That's why when you recall, your clothes also go back in time with you, even though only your actual cells are affected with disassociation."

"That's a good thing," Lena said with certainty.

"I agree. The problem is that as the chronal radius breaks down, it won't be able to properly discern what should and should not be brought through time. If the radius increases, anything within up to a few feet will be carried through time with you and reset to its original position. The worst-case scenario happens if the radius  _decreases_. The accelerator wouldn't be able to recognize you as a whole person, and if a recall occurred, it would start recalling different parts of you selectively, or at different time intervals. Imagine if you traveled back in time five seconds, but instead, it only recalled your left arm four seconds. The machine wouldn't know that you are meant to travel together; it would rip your arm off and place it somewhere else you have already been. What's even worse is that if the accelerator destabilizes further, and the bug left by Sombra remains, it would start recalling automatically. It would begin taking parts of you and warp them across spacetime at sheer random, going molecule-by-molecule and displacing them across your own history. You would essentially by torn apart at the microscopic level. You wouldn't even die, technically; you would simply cease to exist."

Lena sat in stunned silence, her eyes wide. Winston, realizing her had perhaps gone too far, chuckled nervously.

"That's all hypothetical, of course," he stated hurriedly. "And besides, the chances of that happening are very slim. As long as you don't use the accelerator, you don't have anything to worry about. Just in case, I've been working on a brand new one that should work fine. Whenever you can, you need to come back to the watchpoint so I can swap them. Then you won't have anything to worry about."

"Um… right," Lena said unsurely. At the very least, she knew what her nightmares would be about that night.

"I should probably go. Lots of work to do," Winston stammered. "I'll talk to you soon, Lena. Goodbye."

The ape hung up the phone, and Lena simply took a deep breath. As if she didn't have enough to worry about. All she wanted to do was focus on getting better, and right as she was feeling good about herself, Winston hits her in the face with an existential crisis. It did not seem like things could get any worse. Yet, as Emily reappeared in the entryway, she was about proven wrong.

"Lena," Emily said uncomfortably, resting halfway through the door, "you have a visitor."

The woman in the dark hood entered, and Lena watched in shocked silence. Angela pulled back her hood, allowing her light blonde hair to fall down her shoulders. A large, raw scar scratched through the side of her head, and Lena's gaze drifted to it instantly. Angela winced, and it became clear to Lena that the pain was still fresh, as was the memory of how it occurred. Emily, wisely thinking on her feet, drifted out of the room quietly, leaving the two former partners alone to talk. Angela sighed, and smiled sharply.

"Hello, Lena," she said weakly.

"Hi," Lena whispered. Angela nervously stepped forward, placing a single hand on the mattress by Lena's thigh. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you. It's been weeks, and I thought..." Angela trailed off, her eyes examining Lena's wounded body. "So... this is what happened when you disappeared," Angela muttered thoughtfully, making a mental note of her condition. "I'm glad you decided to return to London. That was smart. Looks like you're getting plenty of rest, too. And, you're staying hydrated, so that's very good. As long as you don't move, you shouldn't aggravate anything-"

"Angela, stop," Lena said with sudden forcefulness. "Can we just... I don't need a doctor now, I need... I need to talk to you as a friend."

Angela went quiet for a moment, surprised by the initial outburst, but she quickly accepted and took a seat on the bed.

"Sorry," she said with a small laugh. "Force of habit."

"Not a bad habit: helping folks and all that," Lena joked. "How are you feeling? How's your head?"

"It's fine," Angela said dismissively.

"Is it?"

"It's not important. I'm not the one who is sick."

"That doesn't mean I'm not allowed to worry about you," claimed Lena. "The last time I saw you, you were gushing like a fountain. I was worried about you. We all were. With everything that's happened, I can't imagine what you've been going through."

Angela pursed her lips. "I appreciate your concern. Truly, I do. But, you shouldn't get so attached."

"So attached?" Lena said with contempt. "I've known you for seven years. I've been your friend for  _seven_  years. I have a right to be worried about you."

"But you shouldn't be. That's why I came here. It's why I needed to talk to you." Angela looked away, ashamed. Her voice quivered, and Lena instinctively reached out a hand to offer support. The doctor pushed it away without a second glance.

"Angela. What's wrong?" Lena leaned forward, her bones aching.

"You know, in medical school, one of the things the teach you is not to become emotionally attached to your patients," Angela said quietly. "Well, it's not something they teach you directly. It's more like something you pick up after a few years. Relationships with those you are trying to protect can make things very difficult, because when they get hurt, it might cause you to act irrationally. People do crazy things for the ones they care about. I shut myself off from people. From everyone. As long as I kept my distance, I could help others around the world, wherever they needed me. I always was a good student."

"Angela…"

"When Winston reformed Overwatch, I was in the Middle East. I never wanted to rejoin. To me, Overwatch was never something particularly great. It was an organization filled with secrets and lies, an organization whose problems constantly prevented me from fulfilling my one true purpose as a doctor: to do no harm. Winston tried to persuade me that things would be different this time, and I wanted to believe him. I really did, but I couldn't, not after all I had been through. And then, right before I turned away and never looked back, he told me that you had already decided to come back." Angela took a deep breath, as the ghost of a smile appeared on her face. "I don't know how you did it all those years. Despite all the chaos, all the deception, you never stopped trying to do the right thing. You gave it your all, even when you knew it was hopeless. And honestly, I was so  _envious_ of that. That positivity. That courage. I always wondered why I couldn't be more like that. When Winston told me that you had decided to come back, my mind was made up, because you always knew the right thing to do."

"Angela, I don't understand," Lena asked, growing increasingly fearful. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Lena, I can feel it," Angela said grimly. "I feel the urges buzzing in my head, like some uncontrollable  _hunger_. I keep slipping further every day, and I don't know how much longer I can keep control. I can't think straight. Every time I close my eyes, I see flashes of violence. I see people walking towards me, and I want to rip them apart with my bare hands. I feel sick inside, twisted beyond help. Soon, I'll go completely mad…"

"That isn't your fault," Lena assured her. "You're being manipulated. Someone is forcing those thoughts into your head, but we can fix it. Winston is working on a cure. If you go back to the watchpoint—"

"Don't you get it, Lena?" Angela snapped. She turned towards her friend, and Lena saw fresh tears streaming down her cheeks. "It's too late for that. We've run out of time. Don't you recognize the clothes I'm wearing, or the city we're in? Your visions—every one of them has come true, and when the last one comes to, and I start killing my friends… please, Lena, I don't want it to come to that. I don't want to harm anyone."

Angela grabbed Lena by the shoulders, and pulled her tightly. Her composure broke slowly, as she gave in to the damaged woman before her. Lena sat in shock, unable to think straight, unable to comfort one of her dearest friends as she spiraled deeper into despair. She wanted to promise her that everything would turn out alright, and they would stop the villain and save the world together. Yet, something held her back and forced her into silence; the same part of her that knew she could never lie to a friend.

"There's only one way to stop this, to stop me, for your own sake," Angela cried, her voice broken and yet laced with determination. The speedster sat with wide eyes and a blank expression, as the doctor said the unthinkable. "Lena… I need you to kill me."


	11. XI

"What?" Lena asked in disbelief.

"Please, you have to stop me," Angela cried. She hurriedly grasped Lena's hands, and clutched them tightly together in front of her tear-stained face. "I don't know how much longer I can hold out against this… this  _thing_ eating away at me."

"Angela, you aren't making any sense," Lena said. She was stunned, incapable of thinking straight. Her head began to burn once more, numbing her senses even further, and she felt reality slip away from her. Nothing seemed real to her anymore, yet the doctor was still there before her, begging her to perform an unspeakable act. And no matter what her mind told her, she would have to face those consequences.

"Look, I know what this sounds like," Angela stated, her body trembling. "And I know that you must think I'm absolutely crazy—"

"This  _is_  crazy," Lena said, tugging her hands free. "You disappear for weeks, follow me all the way out here, and instead of turning yourself in to the people that can help you decide to do this?"

"I don't know what else to do. I can't go back to the watchpoint, not after what I've done. Every time I get near them, the urges just get worse. But I can trust you. You know how to stop this. You can—aah!" Angela cried out in agony, and clutched her head tightly, slamming it against the mattress. Lena recoiled in panic, as Emily entered the room, having heard the cries of duress. Lena shooed her away with a flick of the wrist, as she calmly placed a hand on Angela's shoulder.

"Are you okay?" she asked. Angela let out a pained gasp.

"It's happening again. It's getting worse," Angela groaned. "I can't stop it. I can't stop it, I just can't."

"Angela, you need to calm down," Lena said, struggling to follow her own advice. "I understand you're really stressed out right now, but you need to take a breath and relax."

"Relax? I can't relax, I can barely think!" Angela cried. She writhed in anguish on the bed, her eyes shut tightly, and her teeth gritted.

"I know, I know," Lena said, her tone smooth and assuring. "But I think whatever it is Sombra did to you is affecting your head, and the more you panic, the worse it's going to get. So, you need to calm down. Okay, Angela? Do you understand me?"

"I can't… I'm so sorry…" Angela whispered. Her tears stained the mattress as they rolled from her cheeks. Lena was finding it harder than ever to keep her composure. Angela had always been the stronger of the two, always steady in her ways. Seeing her break down so easily was like torment, and Lena knew that she could help, but was not sure how. But she also knew that she couldn't lose Angela to that torment, not at such a desperate time. The doctor was having a very bad couple of weeks, that was all. She needed to remind her of that. She needed to tell her everything would be alright.

"Look at me, look at me," Lena instructed, her voice wavering. When Angela did not oblige, Lena shook her forcefully, and raised her voice as loud as she could. "Hey, look at me!" When the doctor finally gave in and met her gaze, Lena pressed her hand against her cheek, brushing away tears with her thumb. "You are Doctor Angela Ziegler, the most brilliant mind in the entire world, and one of the bravest, generous, and compassionate women I've ever known. You said when you became a doctor, you said your one purpose was to do no harm. Are you going to let yourself break that oath?"

"Lena, I can't—"

"No. No excuses," Lena said, shaking her head. "I know you're afraid of what's going to happen. I'm afraid too; more afraid than I've ever been my whole life. Those visions showed me things I never wanted to see, and I honestly don't know if I can do anything to stop them. But that fear didn't stop me from getting out of bed each morning, putting my gear on, and fighting my ass off trying. I'm not going to let you stop fighting, either. You are strong, so much stronger than you realize. You've been through warzones and burning cities, and I have fought through hell and back with you to make this world a better place. We can beat back those urges in your head together, because as long as I have your back, we are more powerful than anything they can throw at us. So, you are not going to harm anyone. You going to stick by your oath. You are going to rise up, you are going to get better, and right now, you are going to  _calm the fuck down_."

Lena was never one for speeches. She always thought they were hokey, bland, and uninspired. Whenever she and Emily watched a film together, and the protagonist gave a rousing speech to spur his followers into action, she always began to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. She never understood how a hero could know the precise words to say to inspire others, how they could instantly produce such lofty phrases off the top of their heads. Perhaps her doubt came from the fact that she never thought she was particularly good with words. She could pretty easily come up with a quip or two, but keeping a single train of thought was challenging, and she never believed that she could maintain focus long enough make any comprehensive or meaningful point. She had long accepted that it was her actions that affected others, and her words were empty and better left unspoken.

But as the words finished flowing freely from her tongue, and she took in a breath that had escaped her, she noticed something change in Angela's face. It was subtle, but instantly noticeable: a softening of her gaze, a gentle unfurrowing of her brow, a loosening of her chapped lips. With a shaky hand, Angela brushed the remaining tears out of her eyes, and inhaled deeply, as she slowly steadied herself. The panic subsided, and the color returned to her face. She gently took Lena's hand and pulled it away from her cheek, no longer needing it. Her lips trembled.

"Okay," she said softly. "I t-think I can do that."

Lena breathed a sigh of relief. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. I'm… feeling better now, I think," Angela said timidly. Lena gently grasped her shoulder, and guided her downwards, leaning her onto the pillow. The doctor cautiously brought her knees to her chest, taking deep, steady breaths in an unsure attempt to calm her nerves. Emily peered her head into the room, and Lena swiftly jumped to her feet, grabbing her phone by her bedside before ushering the redhead out of the room and closing the door behind them.

"Is everything alright?" Emily asked worriedly.

"Don't worry. I've taken care of it," Lena said hesitantly. She pulled up her phones, quickly rummaging through her list of contacts, brushing her thumbs across the screen, scrolling down to the end of the alphabet.

"If you say so," Emily responded in kind.

"I hope so," Lena clarified. "I'm going to call Winston and have him take her back to the watchpoint. In her condition, it's safer if she's with Overwatch. In the meantime, can you do me a favor and check up on her? See if she needs anything. Say something to keep her mind busy. Anything, really. Just until Winston shows up." Emily nodded, and with a deep breath, marched towards the bedroom. However, before she could take more than two steps, Lena grabbed her arm and pulled her close, lowering her voice. "And one more thing: try to keep your distance. She's a bit on edge at the moment, and the last time we were alone together, she almost strangled me. Just… be careful."

"Gotcha," Emily said understandingly. Lena knew she was asking a lot of her. Neither of them knew how stable Angela was, and it was true that at any given moment, the doctor could snap. But Emily trusted Lena to do the right thing, and when given her orders, she followed them through without hesitation. She simply pecked Lena on the cheek, and disappeared behind closed doors. Lena tried not to worry herself about it too much as she found the gorilla's number and hastily dialed him. Emily would be fine, she told herself. Angela would be fine. Everything would work out. It always did.

When Winston finally picked up the phone, he answered with a jolly laugh. "Oh, she's called back! More questions, I assume?"

"Winston, you have to get over here as fast as possible," Lena said so fast that he could barely understand her.

"Lena, don't worry. Your accelerator isn't shutting down—"

"This has nothing to do with that," said Lena, panic-stricken. "Angela's here."

"Angela? Our Angela?" Winston stammered. His jovial tone faltered, and a primal noise escaped his throat as he huffed in confusion. "She's in London? How did she get to London? What is she doing there?"

"I don't know, but she just knocked on my door, and now she's in my bedroom, crying and holding her head like she's in a lot of pain. She's really freaked out, Winston. I don't know what to do."

"Lena, slow down," Winston grunted. "Let's take this one thing at a time. Angela literally just showed up at your doorstep? When?"

"I don't know. Ten minutes ago? It was right after we finished talking."

"And do you know why she showed up?"

"I don't really think this is important right now, Winston. She's hurt pretty badly."

"I know, I know," he insisted. "I'm simply trying to figure this out."

"You can figure it out when you get here. I'm more concerned with keeping her safe. She kept saying that she felt like she was about to hurt people, and she was talking about  _killing herself_  earlier. And she said she wanted me to it. What am I even supposed to say to that?"

"Angela will be fine. I'm sure she doesn't mean it."

"I don't want to take that chance," Lena exclaimed. "That's why it's important that you get here. You need to stop her before she hurts herself."

"Yes, yes, I'll be there," Winston stated, "but something doesn't seem right. Did she say why she came to you?"

"I told you already," Lena said, frustrated. "She wanted me to help her end her life. I can't imagine why she would ever think I would even consider that…"

"She asked you directly? And that was her exact reason for seeing you?"

"I guess? What's your point?"

"My point is that Angela should have no idea that you were even there to begin with," Winston explained nervously. "When she vanished from the watchpoint, you were still missing, and she would have no reason to suspect that you returned to London. Yet, she seemingly knew exactly where you were and how to reach you, despite there being no possible way she could have found out?"

Lena opened her mouth to get a word in, but as the thought simmered, she suddenly went quiet. She took a seat on the sofa, as Emily tiptoed back into the main room, temporarily escaping the crying medic.

"What are you saying? That she's been spying on us?" Lena asked.

"What's this about spying?" Emily asked curiously, swiftly moving to Lena's side. The injured woman shushed her, and pressed the phone more firmly against her ear.

"Not necessarily," Winston clarified. "But the fact is that she knows something she shouldn't, and since she's not willing to tell you, it means that there might be trouble."

"What kind of trouble?" Lena asked with a grunt, as Emily leaned against her, forcing herself into the conversation.

"Hey, if Lena's going back into harm's way, you can at least tell me about it," Emily protested. Lena tried shoving her away, but could barely muster up the force to move the taller woman an inch. Still, the redhead relented, and backed away into the center of the room. "Fine. Keep me out of it. Angela's feeling fine, by the way."

"Thank you, Em. But I really need to pay attention to this now," Lena groaned. Emily rolled her eyes.

"Hey, don't get mad that I'm lookin' after you. Somebody has to," Emily stated. "Is it really too much to ask that I get a little—"

And then, all of a sudden, time seemed to stall, as before Emily could finish her sentence, the center window broke with a tremendous crash, and a bullet tore through her shoulder.

Lena's senses were delayed, and when they returned, they carried every lingering sensation with them. The pitter-patter of shattered glass striking the floor. A splash of red blood flying freely through the air. A horrified, pained screech, and the solid thud of a damaged body striking the hard floor. The senses took several seconds to register with her mind, and even when they did, she could do nothing but sit and watch in stunned silence as her girlfriend writhed on the floor in a rapidly forming pool of blood, her face contorted in agony. When the shock finally wore off, her body simply moved on its own. She sprang to her feet and reached out, dropping the phone and letting out a horrified cry.

"Em! What happ—"

The second bullet struck just as fast, clipping through her outstretched forearm. She retracted her arm instinctively, but could not maintain control as the pain pumped its way through her body. She lost her balance and collapsed to her knees, her good arm resting along the side of the couch for support. Her mind kicked into survival mode, and she immediately began searching the area for somewhere to hide. She looked out at Emily in the center of the room, only a few feet away but forever out of reach. She knew needed to move quickly, but the attacker had her pinned down beneath the side of the couch, and she was wounded enough as it was. Winston called out to her from over the phone, but she could not hear anything but the sound of her heart racing in her ears. She reached out guardedly towards her girlfriend, but a third shot ricocheted by her, narrowly missing her hand, and she tucked back into safety.

"Emily! Hold on!" Lena shouted fearfully. The redhead rolled on the ground, a crude moan escaping from her lips. She stared at Lena with tired, bloodshot eyes, either not understanding where she was or what she was supposed to do. She was losing blood. A lot of it. Too much of it. Lena needed to do something. She needed to think. She needed to act.

But, unfortunately for her, she never had the chance, as the main door was suddenly and forcefully kicked down, and three men in full body armor rushed into the apartment, assault rifles aimed at her. She recoiled, frozen in fear, but they did not fire. Instead, they surrounded the pair, holding her at bay while one of them violently grabbed Emily by the arm. Lena flinched, wanting to lunge forward and take the soldier down, but knew that if she moved at all, she would be put down. Using her accelerator was not an option. She was powerless. When the shadow moved through the door, and the black matter materialized in the center of the room, taking the shape of a towering, deathly figure, Lena felt like the situation could not get much worse. He surveyed the room, and looked out the window at an unseen figure, nodding approvingly. Then, he turned to the door, and Lena was proven wrong yet again.

As she strolled confidently into the room, the first thing Lena noticed about her was her smile, soft and coy, derived not from amusement or achievement, but pure satisfaction of how things had gone her way. She looked no different than the last time they had met, still dressed in bright neon clothes and bathed in technology. Only her eyes were any different, reveling in the disaster she caused. But, as they studied Lena's pained face, and Emily's bloodstained physique, those same eyes lit up with desire, and her wicked smirk only grew.

"Well, that went swimmingly," Sombra said with a small laugh. She placed her hands on her hips and sauntered around the room, staring longingly at the decor. "These Talon guys sure know what they are doing, huh? Nice place you got here, by the way. Very modern. Fetching, might I add?" Lena remained quiet as the hacker wandered confidently the circumference of the room, as if it was her own home, and the others were not being held at gunpoint.

"The doctor is in the other room, my goddess," Reaper grunted. "Should I get her?"

"Sure thing, dear," Sombra said with a shrug. The shadow nodded, and hovered towards the bedroom, leaving a thick trail of smoke in his wake. Sombra waltzed over to Lena and knelt downwards, meeting her face-to-face. "Isn't this absolutely wonderful, Lena Oxton? All my life, I've wished that people would listen to me, and treat me with the respect I deserve. And now, not only do I have a whole  _army_  by my side, but my two very own walking, living weapons. A girl really can do anything she puts her mind to, am I right?"

"H-how… how did you find me?" asked Lena. Sombra laughed, and jutted a single finger into the cold steel of her accelerator.

"With this little thing, chica!" she said matter-of-factly. "Did you really think I would go through all the effort of hacking this beauty  _without_  bothering to put a tracker inside of it? Please. I'm not an amateur."

A high-pitched scream echoed from down the hall, and Sombra groaned disappointedly.

"Dammit, that woman is giving me more trouble than she's worth," she muttered to herself, uncaring of who heard her. "That knock on the head must have screwed up her reception more than I thought. I'll have to modify that later."

It was only then that the hacker noticed the phone, still lying on the ground, a faint voice pleading from within. Without a second of hesitation, she snatched it from the floor and brought it to her ear.

"Lena, are you okay? What's going on? Answer me!"

"Oh, sorry," Sombra said mockingly. "Lena isn't available to talk right now. If you want, I can leave a message."

"Who is this? Where's Lena?"

"Don't worry. She's just fine. Can't say the same for her friend here. She's bleeding pretty badly. She might not make it," Sombra taunted. Lena tried to shout for help, but the hacker pressed a single, metallic finger to her lips, silencing her. "That being said, I can't really guarantee either of their safety. My friends want to see someone get killed, and I might just get bored enough to indulge them. Tell you what: If you bring your entire crew of freaks to London in the next two hours, I won't splatter her brains all over this nice furniture. Deal? Deal. Bueno, voy a divertirme con estas chicas bonitas. Adios, cabrón."

Sombra hung up the phone without remorse, and sighed. She looked down at Lena like a hungry cat watching its prey.

"Well, you have about two hours to live," she said calmly. "How do you want us to spend them?"


	12. XII

"You know, this is the first time I've ever visited England."

It was her tone that disturbed Lena more than anything. She wasn't scared by the intruders in her home. She was not frightened by the fact that she was kneeling in the center of the room with her hands clasped to the back of her head, surrounded by shard of broken glass and darkened stains of blood, and had not moved for over an hour and a half. Nor was she scared by the two men armed to the teeth in weaponry, pointing guns directly at her, or the single soldier holding up the woman she loved in the corner of the room, as she wept silently and clutched her wounded shoulder. It was not the acts themselves were not terrifying, but rather the calmness in which they were committed. It was the way Reaper rummaged through their belongings, one arm forcefully wrapped around a still-twitching Angela, keeping her held close like a stray pet. It was the way Widowmaker leaned against the far wall, her arms crossed over her chest and an uninterested sneer glued to her face. It was the undoubted glee that was cast from Sombra's eyes as she rested comfortably on the sofa, holding a wine glass filled to the brim with lemonade in her slender, metallic fingers. It was the ease with which she spoke, ignoring the blood and tears surrounding her. And the hacker enjoyed herself, watching her helpless prey.

"I've been all over the world since partnering with Talon," Sombra stated proudly. "They carried me to Russia, Central America, East Asia, and beyond. Before then, I had never spent much of my time outside of Mexico. I assume you know what it's like to travel, being with Overwatch on so many years, right?"

Lena kept her head down in silence. Sombra rolled her eyes.

"You don't want to talk?" Sombra asked, her voice filled with false regret. "I mean, that's really not fair to me. I do all this work for you; I plant a tracker inside of your little time machine, I implant messages into the doctor's head to track her down, and hell, I even convinced the sniper not to shoot you directly in the head. All of that, but you still don't want to talk to me? Why not?" She peered over her shoulder, taking a brief, sideways glance at the redheaded woman bleeding in the corner. "It's because of her, isn't it? You don't feel comfortable talking to me as long as the guns are pointed at her. Would you be more open if I had the guards step out of the room?"

"Why do you want me to talk so badly?" Lena finally spoke up. She refused to meet Sombra's eyes, but she could still detect the subtle smile creeping across her face, the sing of a small yet significant victory.

"Well, two reasons primarily," Sombra said bluntly, leaning forwards and placing her wine glass on the coffee table. She stayed hunched over, focused on the captured woman before her, her hands clasped loosely together and her elbows resting upon her knees. "Reason one: I'm bored. I have to wait for my Talon soldiers to finish setting up on the other side of town, and Reaper and Widow aren't exactly great conversation pieces. And the other reason, to be completely truthful with you, is that I feel sorry."

"You don't look sorry," Lena said snidely. Sombra chuckled, her smile unwavering.

"Oh, but I am sorry," Sombra insisted. "And I'm not sarcastically sorry either. I'm not going to say something like, 'I'm sorry that you're such a loser,' or something stupid like that. No, no, no. I'm legitimately sorry… about what happened in New York." When Lena did not noticeably react, the hacker continued, her voice softer than before. "You know, it's kind of funny. Everywhere I look, I see your face. You are a hero, known worldwide for your courage and your kindness, and yet you chose to live here, head down in the busy streets, alone with someone nowhere near as special as you. I would have killed for that much fame when I was younger. My mother was a widowed alcoholic, and I was her little mistake, one of thousands in a land of peasants. All I wanted back then was for someone to know that I existed, for someone to say my name with the same admiration that they say yours. I guess I got what I wanted, but it isn't the same. 'Sombra' is an icon, but the real me… that's still just a name rotting on the streets of Mexico. Hell, I'm not even sure if  _I_  remember it anymore."

"What does this have to do with anything?" Lena asked in protest. Sombra sighed, her smile fading slightly.

"Sorry. I get distracted pretty easily," she explained. "I think that's why I use so many different screens at once. My brain just wanders from place-to-place. Anyway, we were talking about New York, correct? I wanted to apologize for what I did to you. I got distracted back then, too. I was having a difficult night, and I had so much pent-up anger, and I did some horrible things to you. It didn't hurt, did it? I mean, every time you reset, the pain went away."

"Does it matter?" Lena said with a sneer. "Does any of this matter? Do you honestly think I care about anything you have to say to me at this point?"

"I want you to care, Lena Oxton," Sombra said sincerely. "You don't understand. You're one of the good guys. Naïve, but good. We have found ourselves on the opposite side of a dangerous struggle, and I just want to make sure that when everything goes down, you come to realize that I'm one of the good guys, too."

"You  _tortured_ me," Lena said accusingly. "You killed me over, and over, and over again just for the fun of it. You've enslaved people, shot the woman I love, and have made my life a living hell for the past month. I don't give a damn how sorry you are. You are  _not_  a good guy."

Sombra shrugged. "Let me rephrase that: I'm not one of the bad guys. 'Good guy' might be a bit of a stretch, admittedly. But I  _am_ doing the right thing. The means are rough, but I promise you that the ends are more than worth it."

"What could possibly be worth all of this?"

"World peace?" Sombra suggested. "An end to the endless proxy wars carried out for reasons we don't understand? A place where no child would ever be forced to fight just for the right to survive? I can create a world where people are truly free, free from corrupt governments and shadowy organizations. I will take those in power—the ones who have been pulling humanity's strings for centuries—and I will cut them down to make paradise from their remains. Is that not worth it?"

"You're insane," Lena grunted. "You aren't freeing people. You're making them into your slaves."

"Good lord, you sound just like Widowmaker," Sombra said, rolling her eyes. "I tried explaining it to her as well. She wasn't interested either. I was hoping that maybe you would be different. Maybe a hero would understand why I must do this. But I guess I was wrong. You're just like all the others, so blind as to what goes on in the world, incapable of realizing you are being played like pieces in a game of chess."

"You don't know what you are talking about," Lena muttered forcefully. She clenched her jaw and leaned in closer to the hacker. The soldiers twitched with anticipation, but Sombra held them back with the wave of her hand.

"Don't I? Tell me: How many of your colleagues have you seen die right in front of your eyes? Ten, or twenty? Did any of them die for something they believed in? Or did they die following orders from someone they did not know, fighting a war they had no part in, to serve a purpose beyond their comprehension?"

"They fought and died because they wanted to make the world a better place," Lena insisted. "That's what you don't understand, what you will  _never_  understand. Overwatch didn't exist to serve an agenda, or fight someone else's battle. We didn't have a nation, or a flag to serve. It didn't matter if our goals aligned with those we didn't agree with. Our mission was to help people, regardless of the circumstances, because it was the right thing to do. I fought battles with good people,  _brave_  people, who sacrificed everything they had because of that goal. No, the world isn't perfect. Hell, it isn't even good. It's broken, and flawed, and ruined, but it's  _better_ , and it's better because of us. And it doesn't matter how much you hurt me, because I will keep fighting to make this world better, and to keep it safe from hypocrites like you."

There was a brief flare of anger behind Sombra's eyes, but she quickly brushed it aside, and put on a sly grin. "Oh, so I'm a hypocrite now, huh? Strong claim from a girl who can barely speak."

"Aren't you?" Lena said accusingly. "You say you hate it when people fight and die for something they don't believe in, but you still control people into doing what you tell them, right? Do the innocent know that they are being used as cannon fodder because of your insane conspiracies? Or what about the fact that for all your talk of freedom, you still expect these people to call you a goddess? You act like some grand ideologue, speaking of freeing yourself from tyranny and saving those who can't save themselves, but I see right through you. You climb over others to get to the top, and take pride in breaking down others along the way. You don't care about anyone other than yourself. So yes, you are a hypocrite, and a liar, willing to destroy the entire world just to make up for your own shitty childhood—"

Sombra harshly slapped Lena across the cheek, swatting her to the floor. The hand was heavy and left her cheek raw, as she let out a dry whimper of pain. Emily jumped back and cried out, only to be silenced with the press of a gun nozzle against her neck. Reaper reentered the room, Angela clawing at his massive hand wrapped around her shoulder. As Lena recovered, Sombra stood up, towering over the defenseless hero.

"Disrespectful little bitch," Sombra said through clenched teeth. Angela screamed in pain, desperately prying away at Reaper's fingers. Sombra groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose. "And what's her problem?"

"It's the injury to her head," Reaper said, his voice grave. "It's disrupting your control. She keeps slipping in and out of power."

"Dammit!" Sombra screamed, kicking the leg of the coffee table. "How many doses do I have to give her before she stops struggling?"

"No! No more!" Angela cried out in anguish, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. "I can't take any more of this. My head feels like it's going to split apart."

"Oh, will you just shut up already?" Sombra said bitterly. She strode over to the hall, where the mercenary waited with the doctor helplessly in his grasp. Sombra grabbed her cheeks in her claws, pinching them together as Angela released a pained gasp. "The only reason you are in any pain is because you keep resisting it. Let me take over, and it will stop."

"I won't… I won't let you…"

"For the love of God," Sombra said furiously. Without warning, she pulled out a submachine gun from beneath her long jacket, and shoved it into Angela's face. The doctor whimpered and pulled away, closing her eyes in a futile attempt to shut out the world around her. "You are becoming far more trouble than you are worth. I have no need for a woman who cannot serve her goddess properly. Would you prefer it if I just shot you right now and put you out of your misery?"

"N-no, please," Angela muttered, violently shaking her head back-and-forth. "It's… it's too much pain. I can't focus."

"Leave her alone!" Lena shouted, only to be silenced with a forceful kick to the gut. Sombra stood still, keeping her aim trained on the target, her hand unshaken.

"You need to get it together,  _doc_ ," Sombra hissed. "Remember what your mission is. Remember who you serve, and the pain will stop. Who do you serve?"

"I… I serve…"

"Louder, dammit!" Sombra yelled. "Tell me who you serve, or I decorate the wall with your blood."

"You, my goddess!" Angela said hurriedly. "I… I serve you."

"And what is your mission?"

"To… save the world," Angela sighed. Her legs suddenly gave out, and she slumped to the floor, nearly dragging Reaper down with her. She breathed deeply, clutching her wounded head.

"There you go," Sombra said, relaxing her weapon. "Feel better?"

"Yes. Yes, it feels better," Angela said calmly. "The pain is… subsiding, I think."

"See. Was that really so hard?" Sombra knelt and lightly patted Angela on the head. "Now that you know who is in control, what are you and Reaper going to do when Overwatch shows up?"

Angela nodded solemnly. "Kill them all. Remove them from this world."

"Good, good," Sombra said, the joy steadily returning. She turned to the side, and pointed towards the center of the room. "Do you know who that is?"

"Lena Oxton. Codename: Tracer. Twenty-six years of age. Abilities: Self-temporal manipulation."

"And what do you think we should do to Miss Oxton?" Sombra asked with sinister delight. Struggling, Angela made her way to her feet, gently brushing Reaper's arm away. At Sombra's command, he released her, and the pair watched as the doctor traveled to the center room and squatted down before Lena, turning her head and glaring at her, carefully studying the woman's features. Lena trembled as Angela looked her over, unable to recognize her friend. She pleaded silently, but the blue eyes were not deterred from examining her like a freshly formed corpse.

"We should cut out her throat. Like the rest."

"Muy bien, doctora!" Sombra cheered. She waltzed over to her new pet, and leaned comfortably on her shoulder. "How would you like me to do it? A swift shot to the head? A knife to the stomach? Or maybe you would like to do it yourself? Or I could even wipe her girlfriend's mind and make  _her_  do it? Wouldn't that be something truly horrible!" Sombra beamed with delight, and snapped her fingers. "Oh, who am I kidding? We don't have to  _choose_. If one way doesn't satisfy, I can just hit 'rewind' and we can do it again… and again… and again…"

Lena shuddered. The thoughts of the alleyway burned brightly in her mind, and her heart began to pound in her ears. The world startled to blur around her. She told herself it couldn't happen again. She didn't think she could live through another one of those incidents. But there was nothing she could do to fight back. She could run; she was fast, and if she got the jump on them, it was possible that she could escape the flat unscathed. But, she was in no condition to flee, and even if she was, leaving would certainly doom Emily. She was powerless, and she wanted nothing more than to curl up into a ball and wake up from the horrid nightmare surrounding her.

"My goddess, wait."

It was a small voice, erupting from the side of the room to which no one had paid much attention. When the focus of the room drifted to Widowmaker, she had not moved from her spot against the wall, nor had she looked up at the ensuing chaos, no had the grimace on her face changed to anything more pleasant. Despite her distance and her politeness, her tone was strict and focused.

"Do you have anything to add?" Sombra asked, a sly smile masking her blown temper.

"You should not harm the girl," Widowmaker said plainly. "You shouldn't let the doctor hurt her either. You both have more important things to worry about than torturing her again. Overwatch will be arriving shortly, and the doctor needs to get in position in the square. Meanwhile, you should probably get to the Shard. I'm sure your soldiers have finished clearing out the guards and civilians, and have set up on the observation deck. You wouldn't want to miss when your glorious dreams finally come true."

"Dammit, I forgot about that," Sombra moaned. "Distractions, distractions, distractions. Shame we didn't have more time. I guess I'll just have to do it the old-fashioned way."

"Actually, my goddess," Widowmaker added. "If I could make a suggestion—"

"Oh, let me guess," Sombra sighed, " _you_  want to kill her?"

Widowmaker paused momentarily, before speaking more tepidly. "It's simply that I have no further use to you on this particular assignment. Why should you have to get your beautiful hands dirty when you have a hired gun at your service?"

Sombra passed a curious look at Lena, who waited with terrified impatience as the two women bickered over her life. It was difficult for her to even fathom what she was hearing; the sheer casualness of which they discussed ending her life was beyond her comprehension. "True. And?"

"And," Widowmaker said somewhat nervously, "I've hated that woman with a burning passion for years. If someone were to put a bullet in her head… it would only be justified that I was the one to do it."

Sombra chuckled wildly. "Well, at least you're honest," she declared. She casually tapped Angela on the shoulder, and waved Reaper towards her direction. The shadow and the doctor followed her obediently as she strolled happily towards the front door, a noticeable skip in her step. "The floor is all yours, chica! I expect to hear a progress report when you're all finished."

"Yes, my goddess," Widowmaker said with an affirmative nod.

"Well, then," Sombra said, opening the front door and placing one foot outside, "I'm afraid that's where I leave you, Miss Oxton. It's a shame we couldn't work things out between us. When we look back on this day in the history books, I hope they won't see you as an enemy."

"Can I just ask you one thing?" Lena said dryly, her back turned. "What exactly  _is_  your real name?"

"Oh, sweetie," the hacker said with a proud grin, "it's  _Sombra._ "

With a slam, they were gone, and Lena was alone. She had not noticed the silence, but without the hacker's excessive personality clogging the air, the dullness became almost palpable. The soldiers remained at the ready for any attack, and Emily had stifled her tears, holding up in the corner of the room, watching with horrid anticipation of what would come next. Widowmaker unglued herself to the wall, and marched across the room, each step emanating a metallic clang as her boot struck the floor.

"Amélie… don't—"

"Shut up," Widowmaker silenced her, marching past her target and coming to a stop in front of the terrified redhead. Emily looked up at her, lost and confused, and Widowmaker sighed heavily. "So, this is the girl. What's her name?"

Emily stammered. "My n-name is—"

"I'm not asking you," Widowmaker said with a sneer. "Tell me what her name is."

"Emily," Lena choked out. "Her name is Emily."

"Emily?" Widowmaker said with disgust. "I don't know why, but I expected… more. I did not think any human being could tolerate you for more than a couple of seconds, and yet whenever I thought of you and your home, I pictured someone at least remotely interesting standing beside you. But this girl… she's plain. Boring. Simple. I don't understand at all why you could find someone so incredibly dull to be worth attaching to for the rest of your life. What a waste of life."

Widowmaker removed the gun from her back and held it at her side. That was when it finally hit Lena: She was going to die. It was over. Sombra had beaten her. She had failed Overwatch. She had failed Angela. She had failed Emily, failed to keep her safe from harm, and now they were going to suffer for it. If she had been faster, if she had been stronger, if she hadn't let herself get hurt over and over again, then Emily would be safe. It was all her fault. The person she loved more than anything was going to die because of her, and there was nothing she could to do stop it. And as she started to sob, and the tears splashed down on the floor beneath her, she released one final, desperate, broken cry.

"Please… please don't hurt her…"

Widowmaker's face was unmoving as she turned around, and stared into the eyes of the damaged hero.

"Please, Amélie, I'm begging you," she wept. "Leave her alone. It's me you want, just me. Kill  _me_.  _I'm_ the one that deserves it, not her."

Widowmaker took three steps forward, ushering the guards away. They cautiously stepped backwards she approached. Lena spilled over to the ground, crawling on her hands and knees to the assassin, who waited for her calmly and undisturbed.

"Would you really trade your life for hers?" the assassin asked coldly.

"Yes," stated Lena, unable to contain the sobs that rocked her body.

"Why?"

"Because she's a good person," cried Lena, "and she's sweet, and kind, and I  _love_ her and… and I don't want her to die… I don't want her to die…"

Lena shut her eyes, and she pressed her head to the floor, surrendering to fate. She knew, deep down, that it was pointless. Of course, Widowmaker wouldn't listen, or even care. But Lena did not do it for her. She did it for Emily, to let her know that she was sorry for everything, to promise her that she would make it up in the next life. She heard Emily scream, but it sounded a million miles away.

It didn't matter anyways.

The assassin raised her gun to her head, and lined up her shot. Point blank range. Impossible to miss. After years of chasing the prey, the spider had finally ensnared it in its web, and was ready to feed.

Widowmaker sighed. "I can't believe I'm about to do this."

Three shots, and then it was done. When a few moments passed, and Lena felt nothing, she opened her eyes, and immediately noticed the pools of dark red forming on the ground, and the bodies of three soldiers slumped over. The assassin stood alone amongst the bodies, smoke emerging from the tip of her rifle.

"I used to feel the same way about someone, too," Widowmaker said softly. "It's funny how those things work out."

Lena stared, wide-eyed at the carnage around her, struggling to get out more than a single word. "What… how did you—"

"Sombra is a smart girl," Widowmaker explained. "She discovered a way to alter physiology in order to control humans. Unfortunately for her, I haven't been human in a very long time."

Emily slowly rose to her feet and hurried over towards Lena, as the assassin walked casually towards the front door.

"You have your gear, correct?"

"Um… yes," Lena said, as Emily helped her up.

"Then hurry up and get ready," Widowmaker said sternly. "We're going to go save your stupid friends."


	13. XIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welllllll, it's been a while hasn't it? Aside from the fact that work and education has pretty much been taking up all of our free time, there is actually another reason why this chapter took so long. The original chapter (and it's followup) were all pretty much set in stone, and were ready to be written down. Then, just as the finishing touches were put on it three weeks ago, we had a very good thought, and decided to REWRITE THE ENTIRE ENDING FROM SCRATCH. Now, you might say, "That's a terrible idea for a time-travel story entirely dependent on future events," and you'd probably be right, but to be honest, this is not the first time this has happened to us. None of this was planned from the beginning, and we've pretty much been making it up as we go along. Hell, Sombra and Emily didn't even exist when we started writing this. No joke. Check the dates. The fact any of this makes sense at all is a miracle. But, we finally have the end all planned out, and the next/final chapter (hopefully) will be finished before the world ends. To make up for the long wait, we doubled this chapter's length. Fair enough? Good. Also, try not to cry. It's only a story. If you do cry, tell us in a comment how much we made you cry so we can feel bad about it.

"Why aren't you wearing your costume?"

Widowmaker did not grant her the courtesy of eye contact. The assassin was preoccupied, scanning the surrounding blocks from the vantage point atop Tracer's building, where the Overwatch agent stood in her pyjamas, and her hands gripped loosely onto two twin pistols. It appeared to be a challenging task; the building was not particularly tall, and heavy clouds had set over London, mixing together everything on the horizon in a dark grey patch. Tracer shivered; before she fled the house in a mad, confused panic to help the woman she often considered her greatest enemy, she had thrown on her flight jacket and her favorite pair of pink slippers. Though the jacket helped, it did not provide nearly the same level of protection and comfort as her bodysuit, and her feet shifted awkwardly in their new shell. Emily tried her hardest to stop Tracer from going, and her arguments were perfectly reasonable. She was sick, wounded, and horribly ill equipped for the task at hand. But Tracer couldn't keep away, and they both knew that. The only thing that would stop Tracer was death, a prospect that was quickly becoming all too likely.

"Hey, are you listening to me?" Widowmaker asked louder. Tracer snapped back to reality.

"Sorry. Lost in thought. What did you need?"

"I need to know why you aren't wearing that stupid costume," Widowmaker repeated.

"It's not a costume," Tracer said adamantly, "and I don't have it."

"You have your guns."

"I have more than set of guns. I only have the one suit, and I left it behind."

"Did you leave behind your mouth, as well? Or do you only ever talk when you're fighting someone?"

"I haven't in much of a talking mood lately, to be honest."

"I noticed," Widowmaker stated. "Your voice sounds strange, too. Considering that you are here instead of with your team, and you mentioned leaving things behind, I assume you're sick."

Tracer held back a morbid laugh. "Sick" was not the word she would use to describe her current state. The implications that word brought were too temporary and too innocent for her liking. When someone had a mild case of the sniffles, they were sick. When she was bedridden with unspeakable agony, unable to so much as think because of her condition, with her body slowly shutting down organ-by-organ, nerve-by-nerve, she was  _dying_.

She brushed the thoughts away. She did not have time to think about such grim, depressing things, nor the long-lasting consequences associated with the grim, depressing things, nor the endless line of questioning the assassin would undoubtedly begin to unleash upon her if she were to become aware of the grim depressing things. So, she quickly changed the topic to something far less unsettling: the potential end of the world.

"What is Sombra planning anyway?" Tracer asked pointedly. "She mentioned she was heading to the Shard. Why?"

"It's the highest point in all of London," Widowmaker explained. She put away her sniper rifle, and began to fiddle with the grappling hook attached to her wrists, her fingers dancing outside of Tracer's view. "The observatory at the top is the perfect location for her to detonate the bomb."

"Bomb?"

"Chemical bomb," Widowmaker clarified. "She's been working on it for weeks. It's roughly the size of a football, but is packed with millions of airborne nanomachines. With enough height and enough force—"

"She can infect everyone in a several kilometer radius, turning them into her own personal army."

"And since we don't have a way to break people free from her control—"

"We need to stop the bomb from going off at all costs."

"Precisely. Well, the coast is clear." With a flick of her wrist, the hook shot forth from Widowmaker's arm, flying across the street and sticking into the ledge of the opposite building. She turned to Tracer, and gave an approving nod. "How fast do you think you can make it to there if you run?"

Tracer froze. With everything happening so quickly, it had slipped her mind completely. But suddenly, Winston's words came back to her, and she stammered awkwardly as the helplessness set in once again.

"I… I can't use my powers," she admitted timidly. Widowmaker tilted her head, staring unsurely as the speedster nervously wiped beads of sweat from her forehead. The grappling hook detached from the wall, and hastily retraced into the compartment on Widowmaker's wrist.

"You can't use your powers? At all?" Widowmaker asked, a hint of anger rising in her voice.

"See, my chronal accelerator is experiencing a temporal breakdown—"

"I don't know what any of that means," Widowmaker spat. "What powers of yours can't you use?"

Tracer gulped. "The useful ones."

"So, you are telling me," Widowmaker ranted, "that you aren't able to do  _anything_  to fight Talon?"

"I can still shoot at them," Tracer explained hastily, "but if I use anything that manipulates time, my accelerator would kill me."

"I'm about to kill you," Widowmaker grunted. She stormed away from the ledge and threw herself in Tracer's face, her usually calm demeanor morphed into a furious scowl. "We are facing the most important fight of our lives, and you decide to wait until just now to tell me that you are essentially dead weight?"

"I'm not dead weight," Tracer responded sternly. "I'm not able to fight as well as I usually can, but you still need me if we're going to save Overwatch."

"And you are going to have to remind me why that's a priority," Widowmaker growled.

"Because if we don't save them, they either end up killed and we lose our best allies to fight against Sombra, or they end up joining Sombra's army, and they'll turn on us just like—"

"Me," Widowmaker said solemnly. Tracer blinked, and pursed her lips.

"Angela," she said uncomfortably. "I was actually going to say that they would turn on us like… Angela."

Widowmaker took a step backwards, momentarily stunned. It might have simply been Tracer's imagination, but she could have sworn she saw a flash of red in the assassin's cheeks.

"So, how do we save your friends?" Widowmaker asked hurriedly, returning to her naturally controlled state.

Tracer thought hard, reflecting to her days as a trainee. She had run so many simulations with her team, detailing the precise moves they would make in any given hostile situation. After the disaster at King's Row, they became extremely meticulous in their methods for infiltrating an enemy-controlled area, and Jack had personally recruited her to map out key entry points for London, given her natural familiarity with the area. Though her strategies were never utilized before Overwatch's collapse, they were thoroughly drilled into the minds of each individual agent, and she reasoned that even though they were never formally adapted, if the newly assembled team was ever going to need a plan, they would stick with something they all knew very well.

"Brixton," Tracer said with confidence. "Standard infiltration procedure states that they'll arrive in Brixton via cloaked carrier helicopter. From there, they'll move on the rooftops to wherever Talon is."

"Assuming Talon is not already waiting there for them," said Widowmaker unenthusiastically. "If that's standard Overwatch procedure, it means everyone on your team knows it, including the doctor. Which means—"

"We need to go," Tracer concluded, grabbing onto Widowmaker's arm, and dragging her towards the edge of the roof. "Angela already has a head start. We've wasted enough time as it is."

Widowmaker, startled by the actions of her companion, dug her feet into the floor, causing Tracer to stumble. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I can't run, and I don't own a car," Tracer said. "If we're going to get there quickly, you need to carry me."

"No. I don't think so," Widowmaker said dismissively. "You can just tell me where in Brixton they are going, and I can take care of it myself."

"No. I don't  _think_  so," Tracer responded in kind. "You didn't save my life so I could serve as your GPS. We do this together, or not at all. My friends are in danger, and I don't have time for this. Come on."

Tracer could see the effects of Widowmaker's thought process play out on her blue face. The assassin's features morphed from outright disgust, to tepid contemplation, and then finally to reluctant acceptance. Still, despite the begrudging moans the former Overwatch agent released as Tracer wrapped her arms around her neck for support, she felt relatively safe under the assassin's care. Their mutual animosity which each other was something that both were constantly aware of as Widowmaker flung herself of the edge of the structure, the skinny Brit dangling from her back and flopping around like a sack of potatoes. It was entirely likely that Widowmaker planned to shoot her in the back of the head after all was said and done. But Tracer didn't feel endangered, and the simple fact that Widowmaker allowed her to do such a ridiculous and bothersome thing at all was a sign that something was changing within the other woman. It was something small, Tracer was sure, but it was something positive, and if it remained, it was something that could keep them alive to see another day.

As Widowmaker zipped from one building to the next on her grappling hook, swinging around and bouncing off walls like a second-rate superhero, Tracer couldn't help but cast her eyes down at all of the pedestrians beneath her, moving about their daily lives blissfully unaware of the danger that lurked high in the city skyline. People of every age, gender, color, and creed walked about the streets of London, each trying their best to make the most out of the lives they were given, each trying to carve out a little piece of the world as their own. None of them were like her, but each was special and valuable in their own way, and each of their lives—no matter how normal—was worth defending. Her mind wandered back to the normal person waiting inside of her home, with bandages carefully wrapped around her shoulder and tears in her eyes as she prayed for her friend to come back alive. It helped put things into perspective. If she didn't stop Sombra, all those lives, including the one most precious to her, would be snuffed out. She couldn't let that happen, and as Widowmaker carried her into Brixton, and her eyes became fixated on the Shard, glistening in the afternoon sun as it broke free from the confines of gravity and erupted from the horizon, she knew she save them. All of them. Even in her broken condition, she was a member of Overwatch. She was a hero. And she would not let them down.

Then, there was a sound of thunder, and the chord snapped.

Fear overtook them, and the two women plummeted. Twenty feet down they went before crashing violently into the hard-paved walkway, their forward momentum sending them tumbling into the swaths of bystanders. Widowmaker nearly landed feet first, but the second body struck her forcefully, knocking the air out of her lungs and plunging her left leg into the ground, causing it to twist sharply at the knee. Tracer landed no better—she slammed off of her ally and rolled chaotically upon impact, scratching and tearing her barely protected limbs. She came to a full stop in front of a dozen odd tourists, who stared at her with wide eyes and slacked jaws. They probably had not expected to see such a thing on their visit to London: a woman in PJs and a metal harness falling out of the sky with a blue lady in revealing latex right behind her. It would probably be something to tell their children about, and the thought of those perplexed kids was enough of a positive thought to distract Tracer from the fact that she was pretty sure her arm was broken.

Widowmaker tried to rise to her feet, but upon putting pressure on her leg, she let out a pained scream, and fell helplessly to her knees. Tracer heard another gunshot, and her eyes darted to the middle of the road. The pedestrians began to flee, but through the crowd she could easily make out the contorted, monstrous shadow as it made its way towards them, a massive shotgun pointed high in the air.

"Had a feeling you would turn on us, Widowmaker," Reaper growled. "You were questioning the goddess too much for my liking."

"I didn't turn on anyone," Widowmaker said with a groan. "That woman is controlling you, Reaper. She's got inside your head. You don't want to do this."

"Of course, I do," Reaper responded, taking his time as he hovered towards them. "I'm taking Overwatch for good. You're the one turning your back on Talon in their time of glory."

"Glory?" Widowmaker asked, hobbling to her feet. "You've never been one to speak poetically. Can you even control your own mouth anymore, or has that bitch taken hold of your tongue as well?" She tepidly applied pressure to her injured leg, hissing as she tried to stand.

"This is why you have to die, Widowmaker," Reaper explained, taking aim with his oversized weapon. "You need to learn respect."

"And you need to learn how to keep your mouth shut." Without warning, Widowmaker pulled the rifle from her back, and with one hand, fired wildly at the shadow. The bullets traveled along the ground and raced up Reaper's body, tearing easily through his distorted mass and striking the buildings on the other side of the street, narrowly missing the panicked civilians. Reaper recoiled, but did not fall; though his arms briefly fell numb, his body already began to repair the damage, and within seconds, Widowmaker knew he would be ready to strike. Desperate, she sprang to her feet, and charged towards him, ignoring the pain shooting through her body. She jumped towards him, skillfully wrapping her legs around his torso, and swinging underneath his bulky arm and around his shoulder. Before he could react, she pressed his gun away from her, and with her free hand, shoved a venom mine directly into his face, detonating it in a massive cloud of green smoke. Reaper screamed and thrashed around, clawing at the assassin as she narrowly dodged his reach.

As Tracer started to recover from her injuries, she looked onto the battle happening just a few feet away. She could barely make out their figures in the cloud of toxin, only the outline of a violent struggle. The cloud drifted towards her, and she hastily covered her mouth with her arm, knowing firsthand what would happen if she breathed in the foul substance. She groggily rose to her feet just in time to hear a high-pitched cry ring out from within the smoke.

"Go! Save your friends! I'll hold him off!"

Tracer instinctively stepped towards the action, but was cut off by the poison. Without proper gear, it would kill her in seconds. Widowmaker cried again.

"Leave, dammit! I'll be fine!"

Tracer looked deep into the cloud. If she fired shots into the cloud, she would undoubtedly hit the assassin, and she was a liability in action without her gear. Widowmaker was holding on, but she was losing control. In truth, the choice was easy to make, but that did not ease her pain as she turned away, and began to race down the empty street. Widowmaker was right: Overwatch needed her, and if they fell, she would never forgive herself. She moved quickly, and as she rounded the corner, she looked back over her shoulder one last time. In the distance, the smoke started to dissipate, and she saw the events clearly: Reaper grabbing Widowmaker by the head, and harshly throwing her down against the pavement. Widowmaker cried out, and for a brief moment as the assassin writhed on the ground, their eyes met. In that one, singular instant, Tracer did not see the cold, heartless monster that had hunted her for years. The dead skin and costume were gone, and all that Tracer could see was Amélie Lacroix, terrified and alone. Tracer wanted to run back, but her legs had taken over from her mind, and they kept pumping, carrying her towards the place she was needed most. She turned away, and in the corner of her eye, she watched helplessly as Reaper took aim at his immobile prey, and placed his finger on the trigger.

She rounded the street corner, and listened in horror as a loud  _bang_  echoed through London, and silence filled the air.

Her mind became scrambled, overwhelmed with stimuli, and in the panic, it readjusted itself towards one goal: finding her team. All other thoughts were removed; the lucid past of Amélie, the terrorized citizens trampling each other as they fled the ensuing violence, and even the previous haunting seconds were swept from her mind, airbrushed out of existence. She could not let the one chance escape her, and she ran furiously towards the one location sticking out of her mind. Overwatch would be there. She was certain of it. Once she found them, and explained what they needed to accomplish, everything would be fine. They could hurry to the Shard and stop Sombra, and she would be able to rest her broken body. They would win, like they always did, and London would be saved. Sombra would be thrown in a cell for the rest of her life, never harming another again. It would be fine, she repeated under her breath. It would all be perfectly fine, but only if she kept moving. Despite the pain, and the guilt, and the fear, she would be a hero if she kept moving.

Yet, as Tracer rounded the corner, and she cast her gaze upon her surroundings, her legs stopped working, and in the middle of her stride, she ground to a halt. The familiarity tore through her like a bolt of lightning, and realized how foolish she was. It was a place taken directly from her memory, laid out specifically how she had described it so many years ago. The drop-off zone was precisely as it should have been, and how she had never connected the dots before, she did not know. The details were so clear it was impossible not to notice them: the perfectly rectangular buildings, the half-broken street light, the chipped walkways, all lined up exactly where she remembered them, meeting on a four-way intersection. It was a place she had visited twice before in dreams, but standing there live made her realize that she was stuck inside of a nightmare. The dark clouds and panicked screams were the same, though the road was not yet shattered like she had foreseen. And, in the center of the road where destiny intersected, twenty feet away, stood a single woman, her back turned. A black hoodie covered her well, but Tracer could see from her body language that she was unafraid. In her right hand, she held a pistol, small yet powerful. In her left, she carried a belt packed with a dozen hand grenades.

"Angela!" Tracer called out. The woman, recognizing the label, turned and looked at the battered and bruised woman. Her face was concealed in shadow as she spoke.

"Lena. It's good to see you. I thought you were dead," Angela said solemnly. "This is the place. You recognize it, correct? Overwatch will be here any moment now. They'll descend from the sky, just like we planned all those years ago."

Tracer took a cautious step forward. "Angela… you need to stop this."

"Stop what? My destiny?" Angela asked curiously. "You know what is about to happen, and you know that it can't be stopped. Time will not allow it. My goddess will not allow it."

"Sombra isn't your goddess. She isn't anything," Tracer said forcefully. "She's controlling you. You came to me because you knew that this would happen, and you wanted me to stop it."

"I wanted you to stop my pain," Angela explained. "I was hurting, and you did not help me. Sombra healed me."

"She brainwashed you."

"She set me free. Yes, she hurt me, but it was all to make me understand."

"Understand what?"

"That the world is broken," Angela said assuredly. "We've known it for a very long time, both of us. There is all this suffering going on around us. War, famine, disease… these are problems that are systemic, problems that we cannot fix as long as we are part of that same system. I am a healer, and I cannot allow myself to participate in a corrupt system that continues to destroy humanity from the inside out. Sombra showed me that. If we are going to heal the world, we cannot continue this fantasy that Overwatch makes it any better when they contribute only violence and suffering."

"You don't believe any of that," Tracer said, stepping closer. "You've always had problems with Overwatch, sure. But you've never wanted to hurt anyone."

"And I was naïve. It's impossible to heal the sick without killing the virus. I should have known better."

"Overwatch is not a virus. They are your friends."

"I don't need any friends," Angela moaned. "I have my goddess."

"For God's sake, listen to yourself!" Tracer shouted. "Can't you see what she's done to you? How she's polluted you? You are literally saying the exact same things as her. If you go through with this, you won't be healing anyone. You'll be damning the world to the rule of an authoritarian psychopath who will kill off anyone she thinks is unworthy."

"And that will be for the best," Angela said with quiet confidence.

"Then I know that's not really you in there," Tracer grunted. "The Angela I know never believed a single life was expendable. She found the good in everyone. We called her 'Mercy' for a reason."

Mercy sighed. "That's a strange way to say that. You make it sound like we're not even the same person."

"You're going to hurt my friends. As far as I'm concerned," Tracer stated, drawing her weapons, "you're not."

"Then what are you waiting for?" Angela asked. She extended her arms outwards, leaving herself defenseless. "You know how this ends. The only way to save Overwatch is to strike me down. So why won't you do it?"

"No, no, no," Tracer said angrily. "We are  _not_  having this conversation again."

"You know it's the only way."

"I'm not doing it," Tracer said adamantly. "You are going to drop your weapons. You are going get on your knees, and you are going to let me fix you."

Mercy bowed her head. "There is no fixing me. What is done cannot be undone."

And suddenly, Tracer snapped. All of the pressure that had been building for months reached a boiling point, and the floodgates opened, releasing every harsh, pent-up emotion in one frustrated yell.

"Do you all take the same damn philosophy course?" she asked furiously. "Every time, they give me the same stupid answer. Winston tells me that I can't change the future. Amélie tells me I can't fix the past. And now you are telling that I can't help you, either. Well, you know what? I am  _sick_  of it. I am sick of being told what I can and can't do. My whole damn life, I have had people telling me that the world would not let me do what I want. My military told me I wasn't allowed to be a pilot. My government told me I wasn't allowed to exist as a part of Overwatch. My own damn mother told me who I was and wasn't allowed to fall in love with. And each and every time, I went against them, because it was what I wanted to do, and because I knew I could do it. I  _care_ , and I  _try_ , and for them, that was always too much.  _That_  is the problem with this world, Angela. Not that it's broken beyond repair, but that not enough people are brave enough to try and fix it. But I don't care, because  _I'm trying_. I am going to stop you, and I am going to find your goddess, and I am going to kick her goddamn  _teeth_  in, and there is nothing you can do to stop me. So…"

Tracer took aim with her twin pistols, her hands steady and her eyes locked on her target.

"Drop your weapons, and get on your fucking knees. I am fixing you, whether you want me to or not."

Angela said nothing. She did not move a muscle. Perhaps she was stunned; after all, Tracer had just said more curse words in the past two hours than she had her entire life. Or, perhaps, she was buying time. Reaper would be on his way soon, if he was not already sneaking up behind her. In any case, she needed to get moving. She stepped quickly towards Angela, her aim held true onto the medic's legs. A shot there would only immobilize her, and with their technology she could be healed within a day. She rushed forward, and was only a few feet away, when Angela finally opened her mouth.

"I know you, too," she said confidently, "and you would never hurt somebody you loved."

Tracer froze. Within a second, Angela acted. She pulled her arm sharply forward, and without aiming, fired three shots at her now-still enemy. The first two missed wildly to the right, but the third hit her in the gut. Her cotton clothes offered little shielding. The bullet passed through her abdomen at an angle, bursting out of her near her side, leaving a thick wound in its place. Tracer collapsed with a small yelp, falling face first at Angela's feet. She managed to stop her head from smacking against the pavement, saving her from a concussion, but she immediately wished she had not. The pain caught up with her, and with a violent scream, she rolled onto her back, staring up at the doctor, who looked upon her with regret and pity.

"An… Angela…" Tracer begged through strained teeth. She desperately reached up, her fingers twitching as they traced over the outline of Angela's distant features. The doctor merely shook her head.

And it was then that Tracer heard them. Her eyes shifted past the doctor, into the heavy grey sky, where the faint yet steady noise of an engine broke through the echoed screams. She saw only the distortion it caused as it's cloaking system blocked out all attention from those it did not wish to attract, but she recognized its shape. It descended slowly from the heavens, and Tracer wanted to tell them to turn back, to shout at the top of her lungs and ward them off. But even if she could speak, they would not hear her, and they could not see the doctor patiently waiting beneath them, looking up at their craft with a sly grin.

"Right on schedule," the doctor smirked. She carelessly brushed Tracer's hand away, and turned her back, and stepping towards the oncoming danger. "It's time to finish this where it started."

"Angela… please…" Tracer cried. She rolled over onto her hands and knees, dragging herself after her friend, leaving behind a trail of blood as the ship lowered to the ground. "Please… we can fix this!"

"Overwatch! You've found me!" Angela shouted proudly. Only several meters off the ground, the ship hovered in place as the large panel on its side began to slide open. As it folded outwards, Tracer could see them: the tip of Winston's fur, the height on Reinhardt's crowd, the fuzz of Mei's jacket. Angela reached down to her belt of grenades, looped her fingers through, and with a single, satisfying  _pluck_ , yanked free multiple pins, scattering them onto the floor.

The door creaked open inch-by-inch.

Tracer pushed herself forward, only fingertips away from Angela's legs. She could make it. She just had to push harder. She was so close.

Angela wound back her arm.

Tracer grazed the back of the doctor's feet. She just had to pull herself up, and knock away the explosives. She had to stand up. Stand up. Stand up.

Angela flung her arm, and the grenades flew.

Tracer opened her mouth.  _Move! Close the door,_  she wanted to scream. But as her voice began to escape her lips, the bullet wound screamed instead, and all that came out of her mouth was a pathetic, dry wheeze.

The grenades struck the door.

And, in a flash before Tracer's eyes, the world caught aflame. The explosion was vibrant, and Tracer found herself flying backwards through the air, tumbling out of control. She heard no cries of pain, only the sickening whirring of the helicopter losing control, and freefalling onto the streets. They hit the pavement together, she believed; through the blinding light and the overwhelming sound and the inescapable agony, everything blended together until it formed a thick sludge of constant sensation, too powerful for her single damaged mind. When the dust finally settled, and she was able to open her eyes, the first things she saw were the many distinct cracks in the makeup of the road. She groggily lifted her head, and her heart stopped.

The wreckage seemed endless. Within the crater of what used to be the road were raging fires and hundreds of chunks of burning metal, each a different shape and size. There was so much smoke, more smoke than she had ever seen in her whole life. It forced its way into her mouth and her nostrils, clogging her, consuming her. She coughed violently as she struggled to her feet. Her ears were ringing, and she wobbled off-balance, but she managed, somehow, to stand in the haze of madness, and in that haze, she looked down on at her feet.

Winston was broken. The blood was everywhere, coating his charred and bruised skin. Tracer's eyes scanned him, taking in his mangled limbs, and his twitching toes, and his ruined armor, and his ajar mouth expelling thin, clear fluid, and his eyes, wide and shocked, permanently fixed onto a point of nothingness in the distance, and as Tracer looked him over, her own eyes began to water, and her knees shook to the point of collapse, and she fell over, confused, frightened, reaching outwards to him with one trembling, desperate hand.

"Winston. Winston!  _Winston!_ "

Tracer gently petted his face. He had to wake up.

"No. No no no no no no no."

She shoved him, pushing his limp and empty mass with her weak, feeble arms. She had to wake him up. He was going to wake up. He was going to wake up any moment.

"Get up, Winston. Please, get up. Get up. Get up. You have to snap  _out_ of this."

She furiously pushed against him, pounding on his unmoving chest. This wasn't happening. This wasn't happening. This wasn't happening. This wasn't happening. This wasn't happening.

"Come on! Please! Please, get up, Winston. You can't die. You… you can't be dead. You're not dead, so  _get up._ Dammit,  _please_ , just get up."

She brushed her hand over his face. He didn't respond. He couldn't respond.

"Please… please, no. No… I don't… I can't lose you… please, stop this and just get up."

Tracer looked around, tears clouding her vision. Their bodies lined the streets. Shattered. Bloodied. Empty. They would never again console her, or joke with her, or insult her. They were simply bodies, rotting on the side of the road. Tracer watched helplessly as the doctor stepped into the mass grave, and surveyed her work. Tracer could not see her face, and could only try in vain to understood what she felt at that moment. Relief? Regret? Disappointment? Did it matter? Did anything really matter anymore?

Suddenly, a hand shot forward, and grabbed the doctor by the ankle. Pharah dragged herself out of the wreckage, clinging to the last bit of life she had left in her. She looked up pathetically at the doctor, her face bright red and oozing.

"How… how could you do this to us?" she choked out. "You… you were supposed to be our friend…"

Angela removed her handgun from her back pocket, and placed it against the Egyptian's temple. She pulled back her hood, and sighed.

"I'm so sorry about this," Angela said, each word punctuated with a thick, Swiss-German accent. "I really am."

There was a harsh bang, followed by a splatter of blood and stuff, and then Pharah was no more. Tracer did not even flinch.

Angela surveyed the damage, and with a sad nod, she made her way over to the last hero remaining. Each footstep echoed in the empty streets as it landed with a squish, pressing against discarded chunks of human matter. She approached slowly, ten meters away, then five, then two, then one, until she was face-to-face with Tracer, still hovering over the ape's remains. She did not bother to make eye contact as she lined up her final shot.

"It's a shame about all of this," Angela mumbled. "We could have made the world a better place."

Tracer closed her eyes. She was not afraid. There was no part of her left to be afraid anymore. It had been dispersed over the city streets with the rest of her friends. It was over. Sombra won. Widowmaker was dead. Overwatch was dead. Soon, London and the entire world would be under her control, and there was no one to stop her. She couldn't do it. Despite her best efforts, despite trying harder than she ever had before, she couldn't save them. It was just like Winston said: time was like a book. The pages could turn front and back, but the text never changed. The future came true, and she had failed everyone. Her very reason for living had been stripped from her, and Angela pressed the gun against her head and cocked the hammer, she felt the strangest sense of relief. Soon, she knew, the pain would disappear, and her troubled memories would disappear, and her name would disappear, and she would disappear. She did not deserve to live any longer. She did not even deserve to exist.

Tracer's eyes shot open. She didn't deserve to exist. And she did not have to.

In a flash of blue light, Tracer vanished. Angela spun around, only to see Tracer quickly teleport away again, appearing beside the body of what used to be McCree. Angela took aim, but within a second Tracer blinked again, and then again moments later.

"What are you doing?" Angela asked. She took a shot that Tracer dodged easily, moving to Mei's body, and then Genji's. With each blink, Tracer felt something shift within her chest, but she did not care, dashing quickly from body-to-body, the intervals shortening between each blink. She moved in a pattern: Winston, McCree, Pharah, Mei, Genji, Reinhardt, until she was moving between each hero so fast that she could hardly keep track. She touched Genji for the fifth time when she suddenly lurched backwards, and without realizing it, recalled back to Pharah, materializing in mid-stride. However, she threw off the bizarre sensation, and went back to work, ignoring the horrific warning signs her body was sending her. Angela fired wildly at her, always half a second behind where she needed to be. The blue flashes morphed into blue streaks as Tracer shifted her pattern, getting into close contact with everything piece of scrap metal and chunk of flesh around her. She knew she had to keep going, despite the fire burning in her legs, and the fact that her heart felt like it was going to burst from her chest, and her mind would turn to ash.

Another recall hit her unexpectedly, consuming her in a larger flash of blue, and sending her back to Winston. For a moment, she froze in place, and looked at Winston, holding onto the faintest hope that she was right. That was when she saw it. The movement was brief, but she noticed it right away: Winston's arm jumped up several inches, before collapsing back to the floor in the precise spot it was just in. And with all she needed to know, Tracer ran.

"Stop moving," Angela grunted, trying in vain to track down her prey. "You can't stop us anymore."

Tracer ignored her, picking up speed. She pushed her body to its limits, straining against the revolting accelerator as it burned uncontrollably. She changed her pattern again, bouncing between heroes like a rubber band. Another recall struck her, but the blue light was larger than ever, consuming the center of the street. When the light faded, Angela took aim again.

"Stop moving," she grunted. "You can't stop us—"

Angela looked down at her hand, stunned. Tracer grimaced. Her head was about to split open, and every atom in her body cried out in rebellion, but she increased her pace still. Bullets flew past her, but she ignored them, blocking out everything to keep her legs furiously pumping. Her fingers began to go numb, and her mouth ran dry. She felt like she was about to faint. But, no matter what happened, she would not stop.

Recall. Tracer looked around her. The bodies and scraps of metal were hovering in mid-air, only a few inches off the ground, before slamming hard into the ground with a burst of flame. Angela recoiled from the explosion of the chopper, but Tracer remained in place, staring at the carnage surrounding her. She did not understand why she did not travel back, until she looked at her hand. The tips of her fingers were broken; not twisted, but fractured and hovering around her hand, flickering with blue energy. They did not hurt, though, and as Tracer looked to the spot where she used to be, she saw them, dancing in and out of the foundations of reality many meters away.

Winston was right. He was always right. The chronal accelerator was breaking down from overuse, and she was breaking down with it, scattering herself across space-time. Her molecules were separating from themselves and relocating to everywhere she had ever once been. They called it the worst-case scenario, but as she looked at her hand, damaged and unusable, she breathed a sigh of relief. As the accelerator broke, so too would its field of effect. She had always been able to alter her own time. Now, she could alter theirs. It wasn't over yet. She could undo everything that had happened, even if it meant undoing herself.

Recall. The bodies were thrown from the helicopter as Angela watched with glee. Tracer's hand vanished from sight, as bits of her mind returned to where they used to be.

_Time, after all, was the one thing she never had to worry about. Time did not work for her like it worked for other people. Whereas most people would panic incessantly upon being violently thrown out of a thirty-story building, she could allow her mind to wander to wherever it sought to go without having to worry about how little time she had left before she splattered against the city streets. There were so many things to think about that she did not know what she would possibly do if she couldn't manipulate time while freefalling to her imminent death. Of course, there was the aforementioned philosophical discussion of the long-term effects of prolonged exposure to being violently thrown out of a thirty-story building, but there was also the reformation of Overwatch, the arduous process of locating as many former members as she and Winston could find and convincing them to rejoin the team, as well as attempting to find new recruits, which was, admittedly, significantly harder than she originally anticipated. She thought about how it was one of their first missions back together, how the Vishkar Corporation had continued their development of hard-light technology, and how they had followed Talon to Utopaea to prevent them from stealing a new prototype of unknown power. Her mind hopped between each of these thoughts like an introspective frog, jumping from lily pad-to-cognitive lily pad, never resting for more than a moment before moving onto the next._

Recall. The helicopter spun out of control. Tracer's vision went dark, and her foot vanished out from under her, but she kept running.

_Lena swung her legs off the side of her bed, clutching the edge of her mattress. Her soft, cotton pajamas clung to her skin, and the hum of the chronal accelerator filled the room as the device hung on her chest, a sensation to which she had long since grown accustomed. With a sigh, she groggily jumped to her feet, stuffed herself inside her soft, pink slippers, and left her room with her hands shoved into the pockets of her pajamas. Even though the outpost was practically her second home, it still felt bizarre roaming its stainless metal halls. She was, after all, traveling through an underground bunker, and though she tried her best to make her personal quarters feel less alien, every reverberating footstep reminded her of the inhumanity of the structure, the purpose of her mission. Overwatch as not her family, despite what she liked to think; they were her comrades in arms, and the hollowed shell she called home was their base of operations. Nothing more, nothing less._

Recall. Where was she? Who was she? She had a name, right? Emily, was it? No, that couldn't be right. But then why did that name sound so familiar, and rest so comfortably in what little fragments remained of her mind?

_Tracer angrily pulled the pistol away, and leaned against the opposite wall, hanging her head low. She tore the goggles off her face, and let them fall lightly to the ground. It was futile. The assassin's head rested on its side, and her eyes wandered the littered surface beneath her, uninterested in the hero. Of course, Widowmaker wouldn't tell her anything. She never would. Her mission was doomed from the start. As she rested in the darkness, she felt something float through her mind. A string of words, long buried, spontaneously bubbled to the surface, gliding to her foremost thoughts and suddenly placing itself on her tongue. Tracer closed her eyes, and the words simply came out before she even knew she was saying them. "Do you even remember me?"_

Recall. "Overwatch! You found me!" a woman shouted proudly. Run. Keep running. Never stop running, even if she didn't know why.

_"No. No excuses," Lena said, shaking her head. "I know you're afraid of what's going to happen. I'm afraid too; more afraid than I've ever been my whole life. Those visions showed me things I never wanted to see, and I honestly don't know if I can do anything to stop them. But that fear didn't stop me from getting out of bed each morning, putting my gear on, and fighting my ass off trying. I'm not going to let you stop fighting, either. You are strong, so much stronger than you realize. You've been through warzones and burning cities, and I have fought through hell and back with you to make this world a better place. We can beat back those urges in your head together, because as long as I have your back, we are more powerful than anything they can throw at us. So, you are not going to harm anyone. You going to stick by your oath. You are going to rise up, you are going to get better, and right now, you are going to calm the fuck down."_

_Lena was never one for speeches. She always thought they were hokey, bland, and uninspired. Whenever she and Emily watched a film together, and the protagonist gave a rousing speech to spur his followers into action, she always began to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. She never understood how a hero could know the precise words to say to inspire others, how they could instantly produce such lofty phrases off the top of their heads. Perhaps her doubt came from the fact that she never thought she was particularly good with words. She could pretty easily come up with a quip or two, but keeping a single train of thought was challenging, and she never believed that she could maintain focus long enough make any comprehensive or meaningful point. She had long accepted that it was her actions that affected others, and her words were empty and better left unspoken._

Recall.

* * *

Angela stood with her arms outstretched. She could see them, far away in the sky. Soon, Overwatch would be in range, and she could complete Sombra's will. The burning in her head would stop then. The guilt would stop. She was so close.

Suddenly, she felt something trickle down the back of her neck, and she spun around, dazed. Had she done this before? It seemed so strange, but she could remember being in that exact spot, feeling every emotion precisely the way she had before. She looked down at her feet, but saw no one there. Something was wrong. Someone was missing, plucked right from the spot without her noticing. She was just talking to someone, but who was it?

She looked up in a panic. Overwatch was getting close, too close, in fact. The side panel on their ship began to open, and she reached to remove the pins from the grenades. She only had one chance. She could never defeat them on her own, so she could not afford to miss. However, as she fumbled with the weapons, there was a crack of thunder, and a powerful blast knocked the belt from her hands, scattering the still-loaded grenades onto the pavement. Angela turned around, only to be greeted with the butt of a rifle cracking against her face, knocking her unconscious. As the ship landed easily in the middle of the intersection, the members of Overwatch poured out, only to come across the most unusual sight: Angela sprawled out on the floor, with a battered and bruised sniper standing over her, blue arms raised in the air as a sign of peace.

"Amélie?" Winston asked, hurrying out of the carrier to check on the doctor. He crouched beside Angela and caressed her face. She was injured, but she would survive. Widowmaker rolled her eyes.

"You're welcome, by the way," she said with a sneer.

"You're welcome?" Pharah asked with disgust. "What did you do to her?"

"She was under Sombra's control. From the looks of it, she was about to kill you all," Widowmaker explained, pointing to the pack of grenades lying harmlessly off to the side. "I saved your lives. As much as it pains me…"

McCree walked over to the explosives, picking them up and loosely examining them. "She was going to do this to us?"

A cloud of silence hung over them. None of them wanted to talk about the strange sensation in the back of their mind, the feeling that they knew everything Widowmaker was saying to be true, and they had been there before. None of them wanted to say aloud that they felt like they had all been dead.

Winston quickly changed the topic. "What happened to you?"

"Reaper," Widowmaker said with a sigh. "He's been taken care of. You should probably contain him before he wakes up."

"You fought Reaper off all by yourself?" Winston asked, surprised.

"Don't underestimate me," Widowmaker scoffed. "Now, where's Tracer? We need to regroup before we go after Sombra."

The heroes simply stared at her, dumbfounded.

"Lena? Isn't she at her home?" Mei asked worriedly.

"What? No," Widowmaker said, confused. "She came here to meet with you. She was running here just a few minutes ago. She couldn't have gone far."

The assassin looked around the city streets. Overwatch had no idea what she was talking about, but she knew. She would never just run away. She would never abandon her friends. But as she took in her surroundings, the truth became very clear, and despite every one of her senses telling her that it did not make sense, she was forced to accept it: Tracer was gone.


	14. XIV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, we're back from the dead. That's neat, and even somewhat thematic. This chapter took a super long time to write, but hopefully, you enjoy it for all the hard work we put in. Final chapter coming within the next century. Stay tuned.

She awoke with a start. Where was she? What was going on? Everything around her was a blur, and no sound played against her ears. The first sensation that struck her came only after many still moments, and she instantly noticed its peculiarity: the dryness in her mouth. It was unlike anything she had ever experienced, almost as if there was nothing within at all, and there was only a blank cavity inside of her face. She would have to ask Emily about it when she had the chance, but it was probably nothing to worry about. She would be right as rain soon enough. Soon enough. Soon enough. Soon enough. Soon enough.

What was she thinking of again? Emily? Who was that? That was her name, correct? Yes, she was fairly certain that Emily was the name which was agreed upon by all of the necessary parties, primarily and exclusively made up of her and her alone. Her name was Emily… something? That wasn't right. She needed two names, a first and a last. She couldn't have no last name. How would anyone possibly point her out in a crowd of Emilys if she did not have last name? Maybe "Something" was her last name. Emily Something, woman extraordinaire. No, no, that was stupid. Stupid Emily Something. She needed a different name, perhaps with a different sound, or a different letter. Letter. Letter. "L", maybe? L… L… Le…

Lexi. Emily Lexi. Perfect.

Emily Lexi had no idea where she was. The blurriness had not gone away yet, and it probably would have concerned her if she was not already concerned with the fact that she could not hear, or smell, or taste, or touch, for that matter. In fact, she wasn't even sure that she was sitting on anything. Or lying. Was she floating? People weren't supposed to do that (she thought). Why was she floating, and why couldn't she see? She had eyes. She knew she had eyes. She remembered having eyes at some point, because how else would she have looked herself in a mirror each morning and said, "Hello, world. My name is Emily Lexi, and I'm ready for you." She had to be able to see. How would one see again?

Blinking. Blinking cleared fuzziness in the eyes. She knew that because she heard about it on television once. What was a television? Didn't matter. Probably something for nerds. What was a nerd? Didn't matter.

Emily Lexi blinked as hard and as fast as she could, but the blurriness did not disappear, and no sounds came back. Wait, why did she think sounds would come back if she started blinking? Did she think that at all? It was all so confusing. She was sitting/floating in a confusing abyss and her mouth was dry. She didn't want to be in that abyss anymore. She wanted to be free like a bird (noun: a warm-blooded egg-laying vertebrate distinguished by the possession of feathers, wings, and a beak and typically by being able to fly). She wanted to soar. Specifically, she just wanted her  _damn eyes to work_.

Wait a minute. What if her eyes  _were_  working? What could she mean, Emily Lexi? Well, Emily Lexi, maybe her eyes were not the cause of the blurriness. Maybe the entire world was blurry, and she was seeing perfectly fine. What if everyone else was the problem, and she didn't have to change at all? What a superior thought!

Wait, why did she know what a bird was? Didn't matter.

How would she test that? Think, Emily Lexi, think. In order to make sure her eyes worked, she would have to look at something that wasn't blurry. But if the whole world was blurry, what could she look at? Her hand? Actually, yes, that would be perfectly viable. Her hand wouldn't be blurry at all. Overridden with smug confidence, she dragged her hand in front of her face, and took a good, hard look at it. It was at that precise moment that Emily Lexi discovered that her hand did not exist. Well, it did partially; in place of a hand was a sketch, a rough outline of what a hand probably looked like, complete with—wait, one, two, three, four, five—five fingers. Her other hand was much the same. As were her legs. And her torso. And probably her super dry mouth. Just drawings, like doodles on a sheet of loose-leaf.

"Well, that's probably not good."

That was the sentence Emily Lexi had every intention of saying. She did not say that. Yes, her vocal chords rumbled and her lips parted, only no sound came forth. No sound at all. Anywhere. That was probably not good.

She was stuck. Stuck in the abyss with no one to help her. How did she even end up in that abyss anyway? What could she possibly be doing to trap herself in such a wretched place? She didn't think she would be stupid enough to just walk in on her own. From what she knew of herself, she was a very clever person. After all, she thought to look at her hand! Something must have forced her there, or someone. But who? No one else existed in the entire universe. Except for her, of course. And Angela. Doctor Angela Ziegler, also known as…

* * *

" _It's so good to see you again," Angela said happily. "It feels like it's been an eternity."_

_It had actually been two years. Two years and three months since they last saw each other. Lena took a long sip of her tea. The London weather was kind to them; Angela always preferred to sit outside when she ate, and as long as she was able to put up with the occasional fume from a rusted vehicle, she would be satisfied. Lena understood the appeal. There was something truly liberating about the outdoors, the ability to run off in any direction and just keep moving, not letting anything get in her way. Angela, despite all of the time she spent in a laboratory, was a creature of the sky. It was good to let a bird out of its cage now and then._

" _Thank you for agreeing to come all the way out here," Lena said admirably. "I know how much of a burden it can be."_

" _It was no trouble at all," Angela insisted. "I haven't spoken to anyone since Overwatch's fall. Anyone other than government agents, that is. Talking to people reminds me that I'm still human."_

_Lena chuckled. "That's the struggle, isn't it? Reminding yourself that you're a normal person despite everyone running up to you and asking for your autograph."_

_Angela raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "That has literally never happened to me."_

" _It hasn't?" Lena asked in shock._

" _Nope. Never. Does it happen to you?"_

" _All the time," Lena said grandiosely. "I mean, don't get me wrong. I love it, especially because they're mostly little kids, and they look at you with these super big eyes and speak with the adorable little stutters because they're in such shock, but it is a bit strange. I would never pick myself as a role model."_

" _True. There is nothing admirable about you at all," Angela said with a knowing smirk. Lena threw her hands in the air._

" _Exactly!" she exclaimed. "All I do is shoot things. What's so great about that? Why can't their role model be someone honorable, like a teacher, or a doctor, or even a diplomat? Not to mention, I swear all the time."_

" _I have never heard you swear once in my entire life."_

" _That's because I know how to control myself when I'm in front of commendable people," Lena said with eloquence. "But kids? I can't keep my guard up around kids. I get all sucked in by their cute little faces, and then the next thing I know I'm blurting out every four-letter word in the dictionary. And then I feel really bad about it, because I'm robbing these kids of their precious innocence, when all they wanted was to take a photo with me."_

" _Nope. No admirable traits at all."_

" _Hey, I don't need your sarcasm," Lena sighed playfully._

" _Sorry, sorry," said Angela. "I'm afraid I've gotten somewhat bitter over the past few years. With everything that's happened—"_

" _No, I get it," Lena said, dejected. "Can't really blame you. Everything changed so quickly."_

" _Right," Angela said distantly. "Have you talked to anyone else since?"_

" _Winston, primarily. I send Jesse a text every now and then," Lena mused. "He doesn't text back."_

" _I guess that is a good thing," Angela stated. "You were always the best at making connections."_

" _Actually," Lena said nervously, twiddling her thumbs, "that sort of brings me to something I wanted to talk about. Something very important."_

_Angela leaned forward, listening intently. "What is it?"_

" _Well, you see… I, um… I sorta," Lena stammered, "met somebody."_

_Angela blinked twice as the shock sunk in, before leaning back in surprise. "Really?"_

_Lena practically leaped across the table. "Yes, really!" she screamed with delight. "Can you believe it? Isn't it exciting?"_

" _That's great news," Angela said warmly. "What's her name?"_

" _Her name is Emily," Lena squealed, "and I have to tell you: she is just the absolute best. Like, I can't even begin to describe how wonderful she is. She's so sweet and so generous and so funny—she actually laughs at my jokes! Like, she finds me funny. No one has ever found me funny before, Angela! And when she laughs, it's this perfect giggle and her whole face lights up and… oh my god, I can't even think straight when I'm around her. She's too perfect for words. She's too perfect for this earth. And she's a redhead! And not just any redhead, but a fiery redhead that just burns right into your soul every time you look at her. All natural, too. Do you know what the odds are of finding a lesbian redhead in this city? One in thousands! I know. I checked."_

" _I don't think I've ever seen you this happy before," claimed Angela. "She must really be something."_

" _And the craziest part is," Lena gasped, throwing herself back in her chair, "we've only been dating for a month. Isn't that mental? I ran into her in the park at complete random, and now, I'm considering asking her to move in together."_

" _Wow," Angela said pleasantly. "That's a pretty big step to take in a relationship."_

" _I… I think I love her," Lena said breathlessly. "I mean… I've never felt like this before, about anyone. I don't know if it's true love or what, but every second I'm away from her, I'm waiting to get together again. Do you think I'm moving too fast on this? What if she doesn't feel the same way? What if I accidentally scare her off?"_

" _Well, do you want my doctor opinion or my friend opinion?"_

" _Honestly, both."_

" _Okay, then," Angela said, taking a deep breath. "As a doctor, I would say that rushing through a relationship with someone you barely know can be very emotionally stressful, and you should probably be a lot more cautious before trusting a stranger so openly."_

" _Understood," Lena said with a bitter nod._

" _But opinion as your friend," Angela added, "is that you've moved fast your entire life, and in all the years I've known you, despite every reckless decision you've ever made, I have never once seen you stumble. And quite frankly, I don't think I have any right to come back into your life out of nowhere and try to take away something special from you. Do whatever makes you happy. You always seem to know better than me, anyways."_

_Lena smiled to herself. "Thank you, Angela," she said sweetly. "I don't think I know better than you, though."_

_Angela merely rolled her eyes. "And yet you still can't figure out why kids love you so much."_

* * *

Emily Lexi gasped. She was back in the void, floating shapelessly in the hollowness. What just happened to her? She was thinking to herself one moment, and the next, she was there, in the elsewhere of which she knew nothing. Who were those people? Angela? Was that Angela? The name repeatedly rolled off her tongue, but was it really that woman with the funny voice, whose delicate vocals sent shivers down her nonexistent spine? And who was that other girl she inhabited? It all felt so real.

Questions, questions, questions. Too many questions. She did not have time for questions. She needed to figure a way to get out of the void, if there was, in fact, a way out. She could not be trapped there forever, if she was, in fact, trapped at all.

The vision; perhaps it was a clue. Perhaps the void was speaking to her, helping her escape the only way it knew how. It had to mean something. Otherwise, it meant she was going crazy, and that certainly would be unhelpful. No, it definitely meant something. There had to be clues, buried deep within. What did those women talk about? Doctors. Children. Admirability. Love. Redheads. Four-letter words.

Emily Lexi furiously shook her head. Go back. Love. Was that it? Was that the secret to saving herself from the emptiness? Was it possible that love for another human being could help her escape? Was it remotely feasible that compassion and empathy towards another person were so strong that it could transcend dimensional boundaries and exceed the very laws of nature themselves, creating a force so overwhelmingly powerful that it could break through to the point of her singularity and set her spirit free unto the universe?

No. That was stupid. Stupid Emily Lexi. Love sucked.

It was incredibly obvious to her what the  _actual_  message of the vision was supposed to be. "You've moved fast your entire life, and I have never once seen you stumble," she stated aloud in total silence. She needed to get her feet on the ground. If she could simply force herself onto a flat surface, she could start searching for a way out. She just had to try.

With a heavy strain, Emily Lexi kicked her limbs about, trying to swim through the void. No matter how hard she threw her arms, however, she remained in place, floating in the blurriness. She tried even harder, paddling like a dog in a lake on a hot summer's day (whatever any of those things were), but she could not move even an inch through the fog.

"What do you want with me?" Emily Lexi screamed quietly. It was pointless. She was completely stuck. What was the point of a vision if it's completely obvious message did not help her? In a mad fury, she stamped her foot against the ground, and within a few seconds, she looked down to notice that her outline of a leg was resting firmly against what felt like solid matter. She stared with tepid shock at her strange little foot, curious as to what it actually struck, for she was confident that there was nothing there at all, and there had not been anything there moments before. Cautiously, she pushed her other foot forward, and tapped the area nearby.

Without warning, her body lurched forward, and she slammed face first into the invisible surface. The impact did not hurt; she only felt a bizarre tingle on her intangible nose. Still, it was enough to send a jolt through her system, and clear her woozy thoughts. With an empty groan, she picked herself off of the floor, and took a look around. The haze was as fuzzy as ever, but she felt more confident due to her newly found sense of orientation. The room felt less like a dream and more like a, well, room. And a room had doors. And doors would take Emily Lexi home. She smirked. It wasn't impossible. She could make it out. And the best part was, she most certainly was not losing her mind.

* * *

_It was always a treat for Lena to take a walk around the park during the winter season. She had a particular affinity for snow. Ever since she was a little girl she would beg her mother to let her go outside even during the harshest blizzards, just so she could roll around in a self-made mountain of pure white fluffiness. There was simply something incredibly fantasy-like about it, the way it magically appeared in perfect crystalline shape, and transformed the landscape of everything it touched, transporting her to another world. Snow was enchanting, and during situations exactly like they were on February 12_ _th_ _, 11:30 a.m., she found incredible joy merely walking through the icy wonderland outside her window. She was not expecting much from that day, but she didn't require it. Her day would have been perfect already._

_It was that much more impressive that someone could manage to catch her eye. As Lena was walking through the park, her gaze managed to drift upwards from the glimmering frost covering the floor, and it saw her, standing in the middle of the pathway ten meters away, staring out at the vast stretch of frozen earth in the distance. Lena instantly froze. She was, without question, the most beautiful woman Lena had ever set eyes upon. Her face was smooth, dotted with tiny, adorable freckles, and she had big, proud hazel eyes that Lena felt she could get lost in. And of course, there was her hair, a brilliant red that flowed like a sea of fire from underneath a pink knitted cap. She was all bundled up beneath a puffy coat for the cold weather, but that only added to her appeal. She was virtually flawless, a bright red, shining star emanating from a sea of pure white. And she was directly on the path forward, completely unavoidable._

_Lena panicked. She was unavoidable. Lena would have no choice but to pass her if she wanted to get through. She couldn't turn back. What if the girl noticed? What if the girl noticed that Lena had been staring at her for the better part of two minutes? What then? She didn't think she could bear such a horrendous incident._

_A thought flashed through her mind: Maybe she could talk to her? Lena quickly rejected the idea. She was very good at talking to people, but this was different. This woman was gorgeous beyond her wildest imagination. Even when she talked to other attractive women (like a certain Swiss blonde that she suddenly forgot existed), they weren't complete strangers. Besides, what was she wearing? Her stupid flight jacket and that big, ugly harness around her chest. Her hair wasn't even brushed properly. She would just have to march quickly by her, and pray that the woman didn't bother to turn around. Pleased with her strategy, Lena moved with haste towards the woman, hoping to quickly push the lovely creature out of her memory._

_But something strange happened as Lena got close. She wasn't sure what caused it. Perhaps she was blinded by the woman's beauty, or perhaps the joyfulness of the snow had seeped into her brain and eroded her ability to think clearly. Regardless of what caused it, what happened next surprised her. She approached the woman with rushed footsteps, but as she drew closer, her pace began to crawl, and she came to a full stop right next to the distracted wonder. Without commanding them, her lips moved on her own, and before she knew what was going on, the words had already come out of her mouth._

" _Excuse me," Lena asked sheepishly. The redhead turned to her in surprise. "I love your hair. I was just wondering where you got it done."_

_The woman smiled sweetly, a light blush on her freckled face. "Oh, thank you," she said softly, "but I actually don't get this done anywhere. I'm afraid it's all natural."_

" _You're kidding," Lena said pleasantly. "Well, it suits you. Bit of a shame, though; I was figuring on having my own hair done like that, and now I know I can't get it anywhere."_

" _To tell you the truth," the woman stated, "I don't think you need it. It looks cute the way it is."_

_Lena smiled considerably well for someone who was internally screaming._

" _T-thank you, very much," Lena said hurriedly. She needed to keep the conversation going, so she quickly gestured out to the snow. "So, what were you looking at before?"_

" _Nothing really. I just like to be out in the snow."_

" _Me, too," Lena said excitedly. "I just love how quaint it is, you know? It's so peaceful."_

" _Yeah," the woman replied. "It's really something. I feel like some people don't appreciate it, but I always had a soft spot for it, ever since I was young."_

" _Same, same," Lena said gladly. She pivoted nervously on the balls of her feet. It was going well. Too well. Far too well to make her feel comfortable. Something was wrong. People did not just meet people like that randomly on the street. The woman had to be hiding something, but her smile was so disarming that before long, Lena found herself talking again, unable to stop. "I used to travel a lot as part of my job and I always hated going to the south because of this. Not that I have anything against those places. They're lovely, but it never snows down there. I mean, except in Antarctica, but my friend studies climate down there and according to her, it doesn't really snow either. It's just very windy, and all the snow gets blown around, but—"_

_The woman stared at her, enthralled and incredibly confused. And there went Lena's chances._

" _Sorry," Lena said hurriedly, scratching the back of her head. "I tend to ramble sometimes. I know you don't want to know the details of my boring life."_

" _No, don't be sorry."_

" _It's true, though," Lena stated. "My life isn't really worth any attention. I didn't even travel to that many places. I've spent most of my life in London, not doing much of anything. I don't know why I say these crazy things about myself."_

" _So, there isn't anything you want to tell me?" the woman asked, suspicious. Lena furiously shook her head._

" _No, no, just ignore it," said Lena. "It's not much of a story." Crisis averted._

" _Yeah…" the woman said uncomfortably. She shifted her gaze away, and bit her bottom lip. "So… I'll be honest with you. I totally know who you are."_

_Crisis found. Crisis very much found._

" _You… you do?" Lena asked awkwardly. The woman nodded slowly._

" _I mean, your face is sort of plastered everywhere," she muttered under her breath._

" _Oh."_

" _And there aren't many people running around with a glowing metal chassis."_

" _Right." Lena brushed her hand through her hair, and sighed. "I feel like an idiot."_

" _No, it's fine," the woman said, sweet and charming as ever. "I'm not upset that you would try to hide it or anything."_

" _It's not about that," Lena said regretfully. "It's just… I-I don't know what I was thinking. It's not right to try and hide that from anyone. I keep trying to pretend like my life hasn't been an absolute mess, and no one ever buys it, and I only end up making things worse by lying about it."_

" _Well, for what it's worth," the woman claimed, "I think what you did—or, what Overwatch did—was pretty great."_

" _You're just saying that."_

" _No, I mean it. I know it's very political and all, but you guys helped a lot of people. We need more heroes in the world."_

" _Thank you," Lena said graciously. Crisis resolved. It was rare to find Overwatch praise those days. As the redhead said herself, the collapse of Overwatch had become so thoroughly politicized that most people would rather shun her and forget than even attempt to get to know her. Luck was on her side that day._

" _Since we're being open with each other," she added, extending her arm, "I'm Lena."_

" _Emily. Nice to meet you," the redhead took her hand with a kind smile._

" _Nice to meet you, too, Emily," Lena said gladly. "It's always good to talk to someone who cares."_

" _Right," Emily nodded. She released her grip, and turned to walk away. "I better get going. I'll see you around, Lena."_

_Without thinking, and in a moment of pure panic, Lena jumped. "Do you want to get tea sometime?"_

_Emily stopped in place. "Hmm?"_

" _I mean, there's a place right next door that's really great," Lena stuttered. "You should come with me… together… we should go together, just… two girls hanging out."_

_Emily lovingly rolled her eyes. "I can't, unfortunately. Not right now. But… I am available later this week if you want."_

" _Um, sure," Lena said hesitantly. "That would be lovely."_

" _Great! I'll give you my number. You have a phone, right? Or do you use some magical Overwatch technology to text people?"_

" _Oh, we have phones," Lena said nervously. She could hardly contain her excitement as she reached into her jacket and pulled out her phone, unlocking it as fast as she could. She handed it to Emily, and within seconds, the redhead had entered her contact information with a satisfied grin, and handed the small, brilliant device back to its proper owner. She turned to leave again, taking a few steps before turning around to give a small wave goodbye._

" _See you soon, Tracer," she laughed. "Make sure to bring the cavalry with you!"_

" _Bye, Emily!" Lena called in return. She stared down at her phone, and giggled wildly as she read the number, and the name written starkly above it._

_First Name: Emily. Last Name: The Cute Girl From The Park._

_Lena watched the redhead fade into the distance, and breathed a sigh of relief. She got a number. From a girl. An incredible, beautiful, funny, kind girl. Maybe snow really was magical, after all._

* * *

Her head snapped back. A tremendous shudder ran through her body. Another vision. More people she did not know. The redhead. She was nice. Who was she? Emily, wasn't it? That couldn't be right.  _She_  was Emily. Wasn't she? She felt woozy. Sick. That woman called her something strange.

Tracer?

What the hell did that mean? What was a "Tracer"? She didn't trace anything. Then again, her entire body did resemble a pencil sketch, so maybe the name made sense after all. Much more sense than "Emily" did, anyway. She would keep it.

It took a few moments for Tracer Lexi to regain focus, and remember where she was. She was back in the familiar void, though there were two noticeable differences from the last time she was there. The first was that she was standing upright on her hollow, little legs, and the second was that there was a great big mahogany door no more than two feet in front of her face. It towered over her body menacingly, but its design was simple and plain and entirely non-threatening. What caused the door to appear? Who cared. She needed to be out of the void. Perhaps the door took her to snow. She liked snow, and it was the only thing she actually knew she liked, so she wanted to go to it. Without fear, Tracer Lexi reached out, and placed her drawing-of-a-hand onto the wood paneling.

In the blink of an eye, she had teleported. The blur was gone. The door had vanished. She looked around in shock, studying her new surroundings. She was inside a massive cube, yet it had been stretched and distorted beyond any natural capacity to an almost spherical state. More strange, the cube was pulsating in different colors, changing its hue every second. She watched in awe as they flew by: red, blue, green, purple, yellow, orange, pink, cyan, magenta, brown, teal, gold, scarlet, indigo, silver, ochre, maroon, olive, crimson, peach, russet, lilac, cream, black. She became mesmerized by them dancing in the non-Euclidean geometry. She wanted to become part of the colors, almost. Why did she have to leave again? She could have just stayed with the colors. They were kind and polite, and never started a single proxy war. With a kind hand, she reached out towards the ceiling above, craving the light for her own.

The colors abandoned her. Without any warning, they disappeared, leaving behind a bitter, ghastly white in their place. Tracer Lexi sighed. She could never have nice things. She blinked, and suddenly the door was back, right in front of her nose. She was not so certain she wanted to through again, however. The last time she went through, it gave her such a pleasant surprise only for her to end up heartbroken. Then again, perhaps it was even more of a reason to go through the door; at least she would be away from the bleak, colorless room. With a grudging, soundless moan, she placed her hand on the door, and let it take her.

Her journey was short. Instantaneous, even. Tracer Lexi looked around her new environment, if she could even call it such a thing. She stood on the inside of an infinitely tall cylinder, whose inner walls were coated in navy, and whose inner space was filled to the brim was brightly glowing, violet crystals, which hovered in place and cast endless shadows upon the limitless space within. Tracer Lexi nervously stepped forward, walking amongst the glorious objects. What was she supposed to be looking at? Who had bothered to put such beautiful things in a place no one would ever find them? Most importantly, how was she going to ruin it? Because the last time she was in a room with a bunch of pretty things, she ended up ruining it.

Wait, that wasn't the most important thing, Tracer Lexi. Stupid Tracer Lexi. The most important thing was finding a way out. She needed to get home. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Foc—

Those crystals  _were_  rather pretty. Tracer Lexi did not see any harm in that. A simple touch. For posterity. What was she thinking of before that? Whatever. Her mind didn't have time to pay attention to things like that. She needed to touch the crystal, and so with little hesitation, she extended her reach and grazed one of the closest crystals with the tip of her finger. It quickly plummeted upon her touch, and upon hitting the same plane as her it shattered, causing a thick, black ooze to pour out of its center. Tracer Lexi recoiled in fear, as the sludge began to grow and spread, latching itself to walls and climbing up them without effort, wrapping around every crystal and snuffing out their light. The cavern grew dark, and soon, the oil came after her, pouring out endlessly over the floor. She turned to flee, only to come face-to-face with the wooden door, towering over the horror. In a panic, she reached out to grab it, and once again, she was transported elsewhere, away from the toxic mess. She hurriedly tried to catch her breath, but when it became apparent to her that she could not breathe, she stopped and focused on figuring out where she went.

The new room was empty and white, like the cube but lacking in any defining features. There was only one thing of note in the entire space, and it was directly in front of her. There, hovering in the emptiness several feet away, as a string of words in big, blocky text, written a language she thought she did not know, yet could understand with ease: "I luv you mom."

Tracer Lexi approached the words with caution. Was it another trick? She thoroughly examined the words, but found nothing strange about them. There was, of course, the misspelling. "Luv" should have been "Love", and she could not figure out why. Did the eternal Elder God who placed that message there not know how to spell, and did it not even know that she wasn't a parent? However, after a moment's reflection, the truth became obvious. The words were not meant for her. In fact, they weren't really words at all. It was a text message, sent from a phone somewhere in the world, broken down into a trillion cellular particles and reconstructed across time and space. She had simply caught it in the process of reassembly, before it finished its journey and came to a rest with the mother who was loved so dearly by her child. The words made her feel strange inside. The bonds of love had somehow managed to transcend the boundaries of the physical universe, and she was witnessing it firsthand, plain as text on a page. A mother and a child. A true bond.

* * *

" _I... I just don't understand!" her mother cried. "I just asked you if you were sure. I didn't mean anything—"_

" _Didn't mean anything? It meant everything! How can you not understand that?" Lena spat._

" _I get that you're frustrated, but..."_

_Her mother trailed off as Lena stormed out of the room with a huff. Frustrated? She was furious. Shocked. Like she had been stabbed in the back. The truth was that she didn't really know what she had expected. She wasn't entirely expecting her mother to lunge into her arms and scream about how proud she was, but she was expecting something other than a look of what she could almost describe as panic. She didn't think it would be that bad. It wasn't like she was pregnant or anything, or was planning on joining the military—yet, at least. She just maybe felt a strong attraction to the same sex. She wasn't sleeping around with every girl in the country; just possible attraction to people with a specific set of biological features. Probable attraction. A lot of attraction. And no attraction to anyone else._

_It wasn't a big deal, she had told herself beforehand. Coming out wasn't a big deal anymore, or at least, it wasn't supposed to be. All she had ever heard was how tolerant everyone was, in the media and on the streets and in the movies. People like her could exist like everyone else. That was the promise that had been fed to her over and over, but she should have known better. That promised world was too perfect, too pristine to actually exist. Of course, there were blisters underneath the surface. She just didn't think her own mother would be one of them._

" _Lena, you have the wrong idea," her mother stated, chasing her daughter through their small, suburban home. "All I meant was that... maybe you don't know. You're fourteen. People your age get confused about these things."_

" _Well, one, I am not confused about anything," Lena said bitterly, "and two, what would it matter if I was? You shouldn't care either way if you were being honest."_

" _Lena, you know I wouldn't lie to you," her mother desperately tried to explain. "Believe me, this has nothing to do with what I think. It's just that there are other people out there who aren't very accepting of these things."_

" _Oh, don't pull that 'I'm just trying to protect you,' shit on me, mum," Lena groaned. "When have you ever taught me to care about what other people think?"_

" _It's not just about what they think."_

" _What, are they going to beat me up? Is that what you're seriously worried about?"_

" _No, but—"_

" _No. Exactly," Lena hissed. Frustrated beyond compare, she stormed into her comfy little bedroom, and threw herself onto the mattress. She stared up at the preppy pink ceiling, resisting the urge to scream. Her mother followed her into the room, shutting the door behind her. Of course, she did. She couldn't leave well enough alone. She had to push and prod, and make things ten times worse than they would have been if she never got involved._

" _Love, I'm not mad at you," her mother started, kneeling by her bedside._

" _No, you're not mad," Lena repeated. "You're scared. Scared that you won't be able to use me as a status symbol. Scared that I'm going to go out and contract some weird virus from a random woman in a bar somewhere. Scared that your daughter is some degenerate lowlife."_

" _I never said any of that," her mother protested._

" _You didn't have to."_

" _Lena, you're being irrational," her mother bemoaned._

_Perhaps, Lena considered, she had a point. Perhaps she was being irrational, but how could she not be? She was stressed beyond hell, and she was fairly certain her life was falling apart at the seams. If it was someone else telling her this, like an estranged aunt or a next-door neighbor, then that would be one thing. But her mother? The same women who fed her every evening, who granted her an entire perspective on what kind of person she should have been? It was like finding out Santa Claus wasn't real. It was childish, yes, but it was the only concept she could think of to accurately describe how bizarre she felt._

" _Look, I get that you think I'm crazy," her mother tried to explain, "but you have to understand where I'm coming from. When I was a child, these types of things weren't accepted like they are today. Even what we thought was tolerant back then wasn't very good. Despite what we'd like, people have a hard time moving away from traditions, even if they aren't great."_

" _But I thought you could," Lena sighed. "You're supposed to be better than them. That's the point."_

" _Well, maybe I'm not, at least not as much as I'd like to be. It's complicated, Lena. It's all very complicated."_

" _Then uncomplicate it for me," Lena demanded. "Are you happy with the fact that I'm gay?" Her mother moaned. Lena pushed herself up on her elbows, meeting her mother's eyes. "Are you?"_

" _Yes, of course I am fine with you being gay."_

" _I didn't ask that. I asked if you were happy."_

" _Lena…"_

" _Mum, be honest," Lena said sternly. Her mother did not answer; instead, she groggily took a seat on the bed next to her daughter, and stared blankly at the floor._

" _No."_

_Lena took a deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. It was the only thing keeping her from exploding._

" _Why not?"_

_Her mother did not turn to her._

" _I don't think it's best for you."_

" _Why do you not think it's best for me?" Lena asked, her voice starting to break. Her mother didn't answer. Lena scrambled to her knees, and forcibly shoved her mother in the shoulder. "Mum, please, look at me."_

_She refused. "I love you very much. I want you to know that I don't think of you any differently."_

" _I don't want to hear any of that bullshit!" Lena screamed. Had she always been trembling? "I just want you to look at me! Is it really so fucking hard for you to look at me? Is it?"_

" _I love you very much, Lena."_

_It was those words that drove her over the edge. Her mother kept repeating them over and over, like a shield to constantly hide behind, hoping that it would protect her. She probably didn't think she was doing anything wrong. She probably thought she was being reasonable, and that was what stung most of all. It did sound reasonable. It sounded almost accepting. But it wasn't. It was still rejection, just in a watered-down, sanitized format. It didn't matter that it wasn't the same as throwing every homophobic slur in the book at her. It felt the same to her. The world hadn't gotten any better. It simply got better at hiding its dark corners._

_As Lena threw her head back against the pillow, something hit her. A thought, which had always lied dormant in the back of her mind, was suddenly coming to light, and as the realization struck her, she felt like a fool for not figuring it out sooner. The world was a mess. Those reports on the news about the modern utopia they lived in were wrong. There were still too many problems in the world to count, and for her whole life, she never even thought about them, never even considered that they might exist. There were people in the world just like her, still struggling to find acceptance, but there were people even worse off, people who didn't have any of the modern luxuries she was graciously born into. They deserved a loving world, too. People like her mother may have been complacent in them. They may have shoved the problems into the dark reaches of their mind. But she wouldn't do that. She was going to help people. All of them. No matter the cost. She was going to make the world a place where she belonged._

" _Hey, mum," Lena said plainly. Her mother turned to look at her, but Lena did not meet her gaze. "I want to join the military."_

Tracer Lexi gasped. More visions. More people she didn't know. More things she didn't understand. Who was she? Military. Tolerance. Biology. Words without meaning. Why did the world have to be so cryptic? She needed simple explanations of who she was. Well, she knew who she was. She was Tracer Lexi… wait, that wasn't right. Lexi. It didn't fit. It didn't exist. Why did everything feel so wrong?

Tracer looked around, and to no surprise at all, she was somewhere else. A void, eternal in its blackness, surrounded her. She looked in every direction, but there was only darkness. The door was nowhere to be seen, if she could even see it. She couldn't see her own hands if she shoved them in front of her own face.

She had broken it, hadn't she? She broke reality. Great job, Tracer. All she wanted to do was get home, but she didn't even know where home was, or if it ever existed at all. Why did she ever think that she had a chance? Because a random door appeared and sent her on an interstellar wild goose chase? She should never have thought that meant anything. Nothing meant anything. She was in the void. The sad, dark void, and she would never learn who Angela was, or who Emily was, or who Mum was, or who she was, and suddenly, as the disparaging thoughts began to pile up in her head, and the angst and anxiety began to take hold, she saw something floating in the ether.

It was nothing more than a speck. She walked over to it to take a closer look, but it was difficult for her to see much of anything. It was merely a white speck floating among black. Yet, it did not float effortlessly. Upon close inspection, she could see quite clearly that the speck was vibrating, shuddering in place with vicious intensity. Did she need to touch it? The last time she touched something, everything went horribly wrong. So, she waited. And waited. And waited some more. But the speck just stayed there, vibrating in place, waiting for her to touch it. Why she reached out her finger against every one of her natural instincts, she had no idea. But it was clearly the right thing to do, as the moment she felt it, more specks appeared in the darkness, and swarmed in on the speck in front of her, fusing and morphing together in the blink of an eye.

A ball, red and shiny, floated in front of her. It had grown in size, but couldn't be considered any more than another speck. But then, the other balls came, each one as red and shiny as the last, and they huddled around the center ball, vibrating and letting out a single, quiet hum. She watched in awe as they merged together, first dozens and then hundreds at once, as even smaller, bluer spheres began to encircle them and formed a thick cloud of blue, and the humming grew into a solid buzz filling the entire darkened chamber.

Tracer blinked, and a new form was before her: a dark purple sphere, much larger than the others. The sphere began to multiply and it spread out vertically as it did; as its numbers grew it twisted into the sky, ascending endlessly into oblivion. The spheres connected together like woven fabric, intertwined in a perfect double helix. She marveled silently as the strand grew and grew until it finally snapped and folded into itself, merging into a single homogenous blob, no larger than a fingernail. It was a perfect cell, writhing around in its own beautiful wretchedness. Its membrane quivered and ruptured, splintering open as it subdivided and expanded, turning into two, and then four, eight, sixteen, thirty-two, sixty-four, one hundred and twenty-eight, growing exponentially until they formed a thick, impenetrable cellular mass, shaped just like her.

Then, the expansion became faster. In only an instant there were two humanoids, then three, then a hundred, then a thousand. So many people compacted together in a single collective, and soon they surrounded her, left and right, front and back, above and below. They gathered together until their shapes merged, and she watched in stunned silence as they formed into another sphere, massive in size, stretching across the horizon. It was blue and dotted with long, strips of green and white, and she could see every detail clearly, every peak and valley, every speck of sand in its deserts and every cloud swirling in its horizons. She could see the billions of people living there, each with a distinct face, each with a distinct voice, and she knew them all, each of their stories, each of their emotions sprawled out across thousands of miles.

The planet drew inwards, and her view expanded so that the surrounding bodies became visible, and soon her vision was engulfed in a tremendous light. A great object of fury and passion appeared above her, larger than she could fully see. Its beams were pure white, and she tried to cover her eyes, but the light shone through the emptiness of her being, and passed into her, absorbing her, absolving her. The great sphere shrunk, and in its place, were hundreds, thousands, millions, billions just as bright, just as intense, just as passionate, burning into her very essence. They reached out in long tendrils, extending across all her known reality, spiraling outwards towards oblivion, and in its center, was a mass of pure energy, so powerful that her eyes could withstand its pressure, and yet she could not look away. A galaxy was spread before her, and she could make out each of the hundreds of billions of suns and their satellites with picture-perfect clarity, and she knew the names of every lifeform, every microbe which wandered on their surfaces, and swam in their oceans, and floated in their atmospheres.

And it expanded further. The hundreds of billions became hundreds and thousands of trillions, as the galaxies themselves condensed into balls of energy, like the atom, like the quark vibrating in the ether. They expanded further and further, more than she thought possible, growing and growing until they eclipsed everything that was ever known and ever would be known. The expansion grew rapidly, increasing in intensity, zooming out far into the cosmos, far beyond the point where she ever thought it could stop. The numbers enlarged past what she could count, and her mind spun, incapable of processing it all. And then with sudden intensity, it stopped, and she could see it as it truly was: a web of light thrust out across all of space and time, the full scope of the known universe. She stared at it with wide eyes and mouth agape, her hollow body trembling at the sight. Its size was indescribable, its beauty incomprehensible. Could all of that truly exist? Is that where she was? Her existence was spread out inside of that thing, for she had no other word to define it except for "thing", for such a perfect word did not live.

And then, without any warning, the web exploded, and the energy flooded into her eyes.

It came to her all at once. Not just it:  _everything_. She understood everything that there was to understand. Every galaxy, every quasar, every element that lived inside of the dark vacuum came to her, and she could name them, see them, hear their roars and whispers, taste their colors on her tongue. But not just the matter, but time as well flowed before her like pages on a book. Every instance that had ever occurred played on an endless loop inside of her head, and she screamed as they flooded her senses to the point of supernumbness, fried and broken past repair. It was too much for her to handle, too much information for a mortal to ever hope to comprehend, and yet the knowledge kept flooding inwards, the memories of the universe itself intertwining with hers. It was incredible, terrifying, painful, glorious, lonely, vengeful. Every emotion. Every planet. Every life. Everything, all at once, just for her.

And what was she? She was nothing, not in the face of such a thing. Her life—all life—was meaningless in the eyes of eternity. Her name did not matter. Emily did not matter. Angela did not matter. She was the atom lost in a sea of stars and seconds. Everything had existed before her and beyond, and she saw both simultaneously, fourteen billion years and an infinite future in which the concept of life whittled away and died, and took with it all of time and purpose. Her being was futile, and she screamed again in unholy agony, wanting to shut out the understanding of her worthlessness, but she could not fight against it.

She wanted to go home. She just wanted to go home. It was all too much information.

Too much information.

Too much information.

Too much information.

Too much information.

Too much information.

Too much information.

Too much information.

Too much information.

Too much information.

Too much information.

Too much information.

Too much information.

Too much information.

Too much information.

Too much information.

Too much information.

Too much information.

Too much information.

Too much information.

Too much information.

Too much information.

Too much information.

Too much information.

Too much information.

Too much information.

Too much information.

Too much information.

Too much information.

Too much information.

Too much information.

Too much—

* * *

" _You talk too much."_

" _What?" Lena asked, dumbfounded. Amélie rolled her eyes, leaning further onto the balcony and staring deeply at the Paris skyline._

" _You have a tendency to overthink things," the Frenchwoman explained. "When you overthink things, you talk too much. It's a bit annoying."_

" _Oh, please," Lena said dismissively. Deep down, she suspected that the housewife was onto something, but she those thoughts were a bit too unpleasant, and so she pushed them aside._

" _I don't mean it in a bad way," Amélie stated. "It's part of who you are. I enjoy listening to you talk, most of the time."_

" _It's the other times that offends me," Lena muttered. Amélie laughed softly, amused with the quirky hero._

" _Look, Lena, you're so special. The things you can do are far beyond anything I could ever accomplish. Picking apart one random flaw is just some way to make me feel better about myself."_

" _What have you got to feel bad about?" Lena asked sincerely. Of all the times she had ever met Gérard's wife, it was the only time in which the women had opened up even slightly. She had to take advantage of the situation while it lasted. "You're how big of a ballet star? In how big of a house? With how cool of a husband? The best thing I've ever done is remember to take a shower on a regular basis."_

" _I don't think you give yourself enough credit."_

" _Funny how everyone says that."_

_Amélie chuckled. She turned to Lena and smiled sweetly. "Come on, now. Who is the savior of London?"_

_Lena groaned. "I am," she replied sheepishly._

" _Who is the noblest soldier in Overwatch?"_

" _John?"_

" _No…"_

" _I am."_

" _And who is going to learn to have a little more respect for herself in the future?"_

" _Probably me."_

" _Lena…"_

" _I am, alright? Jeez, you're worse than your husband."_

_Amélie laughed, gazing out at the wonderful city before her. She took a deep breath, taking in the fresh air. She didn't know that it would be the last time the air ever felt clean. "You're capable of a lot more than you know. Just always remember who you are."_

" _I know who I am," Lena moaned jokingly. Amélie smiled._

" _And who exactly is that?"_

* * *

Tracer slowly opened her eyes. She was back in the void, floating in the nothingness. The lights and sounds were gone. The pain had disappeared. What happened to her? Where had she gone? She did not know, but for the first time, she did not want to know. They simply didn't matter. She looked down upon her hand, and the lines that had made it up were gone as well. In its place, was a hand. A perfectly normal, human hand. And her legs were perfectly normal human legs. And the numbness in her mouth was gone, and she flicked her tongue against her teeth, feeling their existence as a part of her.

She looked ahead towards the void, and there was the door. Towering. Immovable. But she not afraid of where it would take her. With no effort at all, she willed herself to her feet and walked towards the structure. Her footsteps echoed loudly in the emptiness. Why could she hear them? Didn't matter. Why was her body back to normal? Didn't matter. She walked in front of the door, and took a deep breath. She reached out without the slightest hesitation, and placed her hand against the wooden frame. Where did the door lead? Didn't matter. It would take her where she needed to go. She simply knew it would.

She had given up everything. She had thrown her very existence away to save the people she cared about. Emily. Angela. Overwatch. The names and faces were clear in her mind. But that wasn't all that was left. Sombra was still out there, and she was still a threat to the world. She had started down a long and difficult path, and through all the pain and suffering, the torture, the sacrifice, they had been there for her. They had guided her through. It was time for her to return the favor. It was time for her to take back everything that was stolen from her. It was time for her to be the hero everyone thought she was. She threw open the door, and stepped into the light. Who was she?

She was Lena Oxton. And her watch hadn't ended, yet.


	15. XV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back. Final main chapter. Epilogue coming sometime before the heat death of the universe.

As Sombra ducked out of the way of a massive, gorilla-sized fist, she realized that her plan was not going as smoothly as she had hoped.

It was a shame that things had fallen to pieces so quickly, but she supposed that was what should have been expected when she decided to put her faith in that faithless blue slut. She had all of Talon under her command, the heroes of Overwatch had been vanquished, and everyone in London would have been caught in her grasp if that deceptive wench hadn't betrayed her. She scolded herself for believing that the sniper could be trusted to do anything so important, and she wished she had just shot the woman in the head weeks ago. Apparently, the feeling was reciprocated, because she had been dodging sniper bullets for the last three minutes, hearing them narrowly whiz past her skull.

"Stay still, dammit," Widowmaker groaned from her perch on one of the Shard's three peaks. From above, the assassin could see each of the skirmishes taking place on the roof, each individual member of Overwatch battling off multiple Talon soldiers at once. They were batting away her minions like flies, easily proving why they were so special. Her focus, unfortunately, was on the world's greatest hacker, who was trying to split her focus between the very accurate sharpshooter and the very pissed off, glowing-red gorilla.

"Stay still, dammit!" Winston screamed, clutching his fists together over his head and violently swinging them down. Sombra sidestepped the blow and followed up with a quick kick to his midsection, which she used to bounce away and gain some much-needed distance.

"Hey, she already said that," Sombra quipped with a smug grin. "Get your own material."

Annoying people: her one, constant trait. Even when faced with terrible circumstances, she always knew how to use her mouth to make it worse.

"Shut up!" Winston bellowed, charging after her. "You can't run anymore!"

"For God's sake, what are you so angry about?" she asked genuinely as she dodged his powerful blows. "Is it about that time I snuck into your base and blew you up? Because that was an accident."

Winston roared, and Sombra rolled her eyes.

"So, not that?" She peered up to Widowmaker just long enough to notice the sniper taking aim at her head. Unable to help herself, she shouted, "Do you have any idea what upset the monkey?"

Her response was a hail of bullets. She rolled out of harm's way, still smirking and quipping without a care.

"Seriously, Widowmaker, you're supposed to be on my side," Sombra said with a laugh. "Did I not give you a big enough dose earlier? I'm assuming that you're just a liar, rather than them actually figuring out how to undo my work. No?"

"Be quiet," Winston demanded, taking another wild swing at her. Sombra was impressed. Despite his size, he was able to attack rather quickly. She thought the magical red glow was a neat effect as well. She was, much to her displeasure, not very familiar with the ape's abilities. She had no idea what caused his power, which meant that she had no idea whether or not she could manipulate it. Her primary thought was that it had something to do with technology, but then again, she was fighting a talking animal, so the concept of magic was not entirely ruled out. One thing was for certain: He was very mad about something. And through her cunning and the power of deduction, she was very quickly able to determine what that was.

And she could have a lot of fun with that.

"So, she's dead, isn't she?" Sombra asked with a shrug. Winston growled.

"Don't you dare…"

"Oh, she's  _super_  dead," Sombra said wickedly. "Tell me, how did it happen? A noble sacrifice? Her body gave out on her? Ooh, did she finally grow a pair and, you know…" She placed a finger gun to her head, and stuck out her tongue. "That's a damn shame. We had so much fun together."

Winston had enough. With tremendous force, he leaped into the air, and pulled back his fist. He dove towards the ground, hollering into the air, his eyes burning red. Sombra was more than ready. With a flick of her wrist, she vanished. Winston slammed into the ground forcefully, sending a shockwave that rocked through the foundation of the structure they were standing on. He looked around for her, but could not see that she had uncloaked and hopped onto his back, already working her fingertips on their holographic keys. In mere seconds, there was a resounding click, and she was in. His powers might not have been hackable, but his jetpack certainly was, and with a devious grin, Sombra activated it at full power. She leaped off his back, rotating through the air and landing gracefully, as his jetpack shot him across the roof uncontrollably, hurling him off the edge of the building. He began to fall as time stood still, and Sombra gleefully watched him tumble out of sight, carried away by his own technology.

But then, just as it seemed he was out of reach, Widowmaker came out of the sky, rolling to the floor and stopping just at the edge of the building. She launched her grappling hook down and snared the massive ape by the harness around his chest. She dug her heels into the floor and gritted her teeth as she pulled desperately to keep Winston from plummeting, only barely managing to keep herself from falling with him. She felt her heels slip as the weight tugged her downwards, and she strained her arms to hang on for just a moment. But, she was already wounded from her bout with Reaper, and it wasn't long before her legs gave out, and she felt the call of gravity summon her towards the edge.

However, before her legs could fall, she felt an overwhelming sense of cold wash over her, and she looked down to see that her lower half had been completely encased in a thick block of ice. Mei, several yards away, breathed a sigh of relief.

"Don't worry. I got you," she said half-confidently.

Widowmaker sneered. "Tell me again why we decided that Pharah should take Angela to the hospital instead of helping us here?"

"Because she can fly, and it would be faster?" Mei mumbled.

"Well, I can think of about a thousand better uses for her right now!" Widowmaker snapped, still feeling the tension of the chord against her arm. She peered over her shoulder, and panic flashed across her face. Sombra grinned at her, down the sight of her submachine gun.

"This is what happens when you cross Somb—"

With a damaging shot, the gun was blasted out of her reach, and she recoiled in shock as she gripped her wrist. She barely had a moment to recover before McCree dove after her, getting in close and firing at close range. Sombra guarded the onslaught as best as she could, grabbing McCree's wrist and yanking it sharply in every direction she could think of, narrowly avoiding his aim.

"Dammit," McCree said with a grimace. He grabbed her with her free hand and pulled her in tightly, shoving his nose against hers. His pistol was ere inches from her temple, but no matter how hard he pushed, it would not budge. "How the hell did you get so strong?"

"Push-ups. Weight-training. I'd love to show you sometime," Sombra said nonchalantly.

"Not in the mood," McCree groaned, struggling with his weapon.

"What's wrong? Trouble keeping it up?" Sombra asked, casting a sideways glance at his hands. "You know what the problem is? Your arm is outdated. That type of prosthetic is years old. You'd be much better off with a powerful  _upgrade_."

"Well," McCree growled, "I guess you'll have to tell me how that works out."

With sudden force, McCree pulled backward, and dragged Sombra's arms outwards. The motion caused her to jerk forward and she stumbled unexpectedly, leaving her limbs complete exposed.

"Genji, now!"

Sombra didn't see the ninja coming, but she heard him. His voice rang out from above, and he moved like lightning, dashing towards her out from the sky, sword drawn and crackling with power.

" _Ryūjin no ken wo kūrae!_ "

At the last moment, she shook free one of her hands, but McCree grabbed her right wrist with his massive, metal gauntlet, holding it in place as Genji's blade sliced cleanly through it. Her hand dropped to the floor, sparks flying from its broken end. Sombra stumbled backward in a daze, clutching at her mutilated wrist and staring at the exposed metal tubing within.

"Carajo, I just installed that!" Sombra cried. She fell to her knees and surveyed her environment. Her reinforcements were wiped out, lying incapacitated on the floor. To her right, the man in the big metal suit with the oversized hammer hoisted the gorilla upwards, as the snowball worked to thaw out the traitor. To her left, the gunslinger and the ninja began to approach her, weapons at the ready. She was a thousand feet in the air, with nowhere left to go. Overwatch had overpowered her. So many years of planning wasted. She took a deep breath. She couldn't afford to panic, at least not yet. She could still pull it off. She just needed to be clever about it.

"I have to admit, I didn't really think you could do it," she stated reluctantly. "I guess I shouldn't have underestimated you. Such brave heroes."

As they finally recovered and began to surround her, she continued, throwing her stump hand into the air. "I surrender by the way. You can take me into custody anytime you—"

She was quickly silenced with a sudden boot to the face, toppling her over. She tried to recover, but before she could, Widowmaker, stomped down hard on her throat, knocking the air out of her.

"Shut up," the assassin sneered. "Where is the bomb?"

"I thought you wanted me to shut up?" Sombra choked. "Be more specific—ah!"

Widowmaker twisted her boot further into Sombra's neck. "The bomb. Where is it?"

McCree forcibly pulled Widowmaker away, wrapping his arms around her waist and dragging her backward. "Watch it there, sister. We ain't tryin' to kill her." Sombra grasped at her throat, pushing herself halfheartedly to her knees. She beamed at the heroes surrounding her, a thin trickle of blood rushing from her nose.

"You people are pathetic, you know that?  _Overwatch_ ," she said with disgust. "A bunch of puppets. So desperate to convince yourselves that you aren't freaks and monsters that you'd throw away everything to save a dying world."

"We ain't monsters," said McCree plainly. Sombra chuckled.

"Oh, aren't you? Jesse McCree, bounty hunter. Former Blackwatch operative. How many innocent people have you killed? How many terrible things have you done in the search of profit? I've read your files, your history. I know I've done some bad things, but shit, compared to you, I'm a damn  _saint._  And the rest of you? You're just more of the same. A fat little scientist thrown out of time who watched everyone she cared about freeze to death. An old Crusader still clinging to his glory days, so he forgets that no respects the man he has become. A mentally broken castaway whose barely even human anymore. A dead-inside, gutless bitch who still can't get over the fact that her own, worthless life was taken from her. And you," she gestured to Winston, "I don't even  _know_  what the fuck you are supposed to be. To think that any of you truly believe you can find a place in this world is… well, childish. It'd be funny if it wasn't so pathetic."

There was a moment of stillness as Sombra chuckled to himself. Then came the downwards glances, the bitter sneers, the silent rage. But over all of that broke through a single voice, unbroken, numb to all insults.

"Enough stalling. Where's the bomb?" McCree asked, unfazed.

Sombra rolled her eyes. "And so serious, too. Do you want to know where the bomb is? Fine. Here's the truth: There  _is_  no bomb. I made it up."

"Bullshit," Widowmaker scowled, tugging against McCree's grip. "I saw her working on it."

"That wasn't a bomb. That wasn't anything," Sombra claimed. "I was never planning on making a bomb."

"She's lying. Talon contracted her to develop a superweapon. I fetched the parts she needed myself."

"Widow, Widow, Widow, did you really think I was going to do anything Talon said?" Sombra laughed smugly. "I was never planning on working with Talon. I just wanted the money, so I faked most of my work on the bomb, and I was going to take my payment and escape to the Virgin Islands, where I could lounge on the beach drinking margaritas in the hot summer sun. Seriously, did you think it was even possible to develop a weapon like that? The chemical agent, sure, but a device powerful enough to spread it that far? It would require something  _much_  bigger and  _much_ more advanced than anything I could come up with. You got played. Plain and simple."

"She's not cooperating," Reinhardt stated, shaking his head. "What should we do?"

"The bomb has to be here somewhere," Widowmaker stated. "She mentioned earlier that her soldiers had finished setting it up right around here."

"Maybe it's cloaked?" Mei suggested. "You know, just like she was earlier?"

"Possible, but then where is it?" Widowmaker asked. "She said Talon had set it up on the Spire. Set it up. Where is the set up then? Where is the rest of Talon? Something is wrong."

"I told you already, it's a lie!" Sombra protested.

"Can someone please tape her mouth shut already?" Widowmaker groaned.

"No, no, no, no," Sombra cackled. "You misunderstand me. A single bomb of that size detonated in one location capable of spreading a chemical agent across all of London? Impossible. At most, it would hit a few blocks, and then dissipate into the atmosphere. The physics don't work out in your favor. But a larger bomb? Or two? Or ten? Or a hundred, spread out across the entire sky? Oh, that... that could work out quite nicely."

In a flash, a pair of massive hands wrapped around her waist, and within a moment the hacker was brought face-to-face with the giant ape.

"What did you do?" he questioned her.

Sombra rolled her eyes. "You know what's really funny about you hero types? You always think you know everything. You have so much faith in yourselves. But I've faced dozens just like you, and let me tell you something…"

A distorted cry rippled through the air and they appeared: a dozen airships materializing throughout the sky. Each was packed with soldiers, and hanging from their sides were massive black machines, each the size of a small car. The airships whirred loudly, and even down at the city streets, people looked up in shock and wonder at the massive vessels hovering in the air. They dotted the horizon, and the heroes looked up in horror just long enough for Sombra to begin dancing with her one remaining hands, targeting each of them in her holographic interface. By the time Winston, realized what she was doing, it was too late. Sombra burst out of his grasp, launching herself back through the air, and wrapped her arms tightly around her chest as violet energy surged through her. With a sudden jolt, she shot her arms forward, and the sound of electrical static filled the air as the heroes became engulfed by a wave of power, unlike anything they had ever encountered.

All at once, their technology failed. McCree's arm fell limp and its weight dragged him downward, collapsing on top of Widowmaker, still stranded in his arms, and Genji instantly fell over with a pained groan. Mei's equipment began to whir loudly and, with a pop, exploded into a block of ice, knocking her off her feet. Reinhardt's armor ceased to function, and he stood silently in place, trapped within his suit, and Winston's tesla cannon malfunctioned, sputtering and shrieking as it powered down with the rest of his technology. He was left defenseless, and during the moment of hesitation in which he watched his powers fail him, Sombra capitalized, delivering a sharp kick to his face, knocking him away.

Sombra grinned wickedly. "You aren't so special, after all." With the heroes down, she sauntered over to her submachine gun, casually picking it up off the floor with her one remaining hand. As she admired her work, she heard a distant groan, and her eyes traced down to Widowmaker, her already-injured leg caught under McCree's immovable metal limb. The assassin panted, straining to worm free from the marksman's grasp, but failing to budge an inch. Sombra chuckled, and with gentle, restrained steps, made her way towards the fallen warrior.

"You… you won't get away with this," Widowmaker gasped.

"Really?" Sombra asked, gesturing to the sky. "Are you sure about that? How exactly have I not already gotten away with this? Who's left to stop me?"

"Someone will," Widowmaker said with spite.

"Oh, and let me guess," Sombra stated, "that someone is going to be you? Oh my, however, will I defend myself from a woman who can't walk and doesn't have any means of attacking me? What horror!"

"It doesn't have to be me. There are billions of people and omnics in the world who will be ready to fight against you. You might take the city, but you'll fall. Eventually."

"Hmm, maybe you're right," Sombra shrugged. "A few million people aren't really good for much. But thankfully, I don't just have a few million people. I have you lovely heroes to help me…  _all_ of you."

Widowmaker strained again under McCree's weight, but even as the marksman tried to help her, they could not move. Her panicked eyes darted around the skies, scanning the enemy ships stationed to release their toxin across all of London. There were too many of them. Even if she could free herself, she had no way to get to any of them in the few seconds before they attacked. For the first time in many years, she felt completely powerless.

"You won't control me," Widowmaker swore through gritted teeth. "You can't control me."

"I know," Sombra said, her voice somewhat remorseful. She very calmly aimed her weapon at Widowmaker's head. "Oh, well. Five out of six ain't bad."

Widowmaker recoiled. She threw up her arm to defend herself; why, she did not know, as she knew it wouldn't do her any good. But as Sombra casually moved her finger to the trigger and began to squeeze, Widowmaker found herself feeling something strange. It wasn't that the specter of death hadn't loomed over her for many years. Often, she even treated it like a friend. But as the moment of her passing dawned on her, she realized that a very strange thought permeated her mind.

She missed Gérard. And she realized she would return to him.

But then, the sky erupted in a flash of blue, and everything seemed to stand still. Their eyes jumped to the empty air, searching for a source, Sombra's finger still resting on the trigger. Was it a flash of lightning? Even with the dark grey skies, they would have heard thunder by now. But then what was it?

Another flash appeared, lighting up to the peak of the Spire. Then another. And another.

It took a few moments, but as Widowmaker's eyes darted around the sky, she noticed that there were fewer ships than there was just a moment before. And when another flash came, and the sky erupted in a blaze of blue, the assassin saw it: one of the airships being absorbed in a ball of blue light, and then vanishing without a trace.

"What… what are you doing?" Sombra asked, concern apparent in her voice.

"I… I'm not doing that," Widowmaker said honestly. More flashes of light. More disappearing airships. The time between flashes grew smaller and smaller and soon transformed into a steady stream of blue across the cloudy sky, clashing and vaporizing all it encountered. Sombra glanced around, stricken with panic. It wasn't possible. She had worked so hard for so long. It couldn't be real. Nothing should have been able to stop her. No military force could have gathered themselves so quickly to launch an assault already. No members of Overwatch were left standing. No Talon operatives were beyond her reach. That did not stop the flashes to stop before her very eyes. Her plans, her airships, her toxin: gone in a matter of seconds. She became silent, and as the last ship disappeared, she stood with her head hung low, quivering with anger.

"What did you do?" she asked in a whisper, her voice hoarse. "What the hell did you to them?"

"Sombra, I didn't—"

The hacker did not give her the chance to respond. With a furious scream, she pressed down hard on the trigger and unleashed a furious barrage at the assassin. A violent series of crashes riddled the air, and Widowmaker shut her eyes, bracing for the impact. Sombra emptied the clip without stop, and by the time her gun clicked, she was breathing heavily, wishing that she could have done more to harm the assassin before her end.

Then, Widowmaker opened her eyes, and they both froze.

Twenty bullets hovered directly in front of her face, locked into the air like tiny, metal statues. They were completely frozen, and when Widowmaker reached her free arm out to touch them, they did not budge.

Yet, it was not the bullets that caused Widowmaker's eyes to widen and Sombra's mouth to hang open in shock. It was the woman standing next to them, who had suddenly appeared in a powerful blue flash. To Widowmaker, she should have looked ridiculous. Her brown hair was whipped into a frenzy, and she was wearing no more than a loose-fitting white T-shirt, long plaid pyjama bottoms and a pair of fluffy pink slippers. But there was something off about her, and Widowmaker could feel it. Had she always had those tiny sparks reverberating down her arms and dancing between her fingers? Had she always stood with such confidence, such energy that she looked as immovable as a mountain? Hadn't her eyes been a dull brown, and not the dazzling, electric blue that pierced straight through the hacker like daggers? She did not know. But when the woman finally spoke, she realized that she did not care. The voice was the same, but it was changed, radiating with so much fire and determination that she felt the words pass through her chest and strike at her very heart.

"Don't worry, love," Lena said fiercely, staring down the hacker several feet away. "Calvary's here."

Sombra groaned, throwing her arms down in frustration. " _You!_  You're still alive?" she shouted furiously. "How fucking hard is it to kill you? Do you have a fucking reset button strapped to your back?"

Lena just glared at her.

"Really? You have nothing else to add to that?" Sombra asked bitterly. "No quips, no jokes, no explanations. You're just going to fucking stand there without saying a goddamn word to me."

Lena did just that.

"I can't believe this," Sombra moaned. "You come here at the last possible moment, and ruin everything I have worked so hard for. I should never have let you leave New York alive. I shouldn't have let you leave your home alive. Fuck, I never should have left  _any of you_ alive. You're all damn cockroaches, crawling out of the sewers to contaminate all of the good I've ever done!"

Sombra took a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves. After a few moments of reprieve, a sadistic grin appeared on her face. She extended her hand towards Lena, and brought up her interface. "Fine, Oxton. You want to come back from the dead and destroy my creations? Then let's pick up where we last left off. I could really take out some stress, and I wouldn't mind killing you a few more times to do it." Sombra readied to snap her fingers and take control, but then she froze, staring at Lena's chest with confusion. She could have sworn that Lena used to wear some sort of metal chassis there. But there was nothing in sight for her to hack. "Wait, wha—"

With a brilliant flash, Lena shot forward, and punched Sombra in the face as hard as she possibly could. The impact sent shockwaves through the hacker, and she flew backward, skidding across the rooftop. She rolled to a stop on her stomach and groggily rose to her feet, stumbling as she attempted to regain balance.

" _That_  was for threatening Amélie," Lena said calmly as she lowered her fist. " _This_  is for hurting Angela."

Lena vanished and appeared behind Sombra, striking her with a kick to the back of the head. The hacker rolled forward, flopping to the ground like a fish. She clutched her head, trying to regain her bearings.

"How did you… where did you—"

" _This_  is for Winston."

Lena swiped Sombra's leg, taking her out.

"And Jesse."

She kneed Sombra in the stomach, and warped behind her.

"And Mei."

She brought down her elbow hard, and before Sombra could hit the floor, she was struck across the bridge of her nose.

"And Fareeha. And Reinhardt. And Genji."

Lena delivered another series of blows in lightning succession, each from a different angle, and each exploding through Sombra's body. Lena wound back her arm, and swung as hard as she could.

"And  _this_ ," she cried as her arm shot forward and smacked into Sombra's chest, "is for Emily."

Sombra soared through the air, landing with a dull thud meters away near the rest of Overwatch. The hacker groaned, still trying to get to her feet. She knew something was broken inside of her. She simply couldn't figure out if it was her bones, her organs, or some combination of both. Desperately, she fumbled for her machine gun, as Lena casually began to walk over to her.

"You…" Sombra mumbled tiredly. "You bitch… you shouldn't be able to move that fast…"

"I guess I've gotten better," Lena stated calmly.

"No… you shouldn't be here," Sombra claimed, struggling to reload her machine gun. "Your accelerator's been destroyed. You shouldn't exist. That's not possible."

"I used to think lots of things were not possible," Lena explained. Even as Sombra snapped the new clip into place, she pressed forward, unafraid. "Then you opened my eyes."

"Liar!" Sombra screamed, taking aim. However, before she could fire, a flash of blue engulfed her weapon, and the gun suddenly froze into place. She pressed on the trigger, and it would not move, and when she tried to drop it, it merely floated in place, unbothered by reality. Sombra scurried away from it, stricken with fear. "How are you doing this? You shouldn't be able to freeze things like that. You shouldn't be able to destroy all my ships like they were nothing."

"I didn't destroy your ships," stated Lena. "I just returned them and their crews back to their state of time from a few years ago. Good news is some of them will get a chance to make better decisions in their lives."

"But you shouldn't be able to control their time," Sombra stated, hurrying to her feet as Lena approached and trying to back away. "I studied your case for months. Your accelerator gave you the ability to control your own time, not others. But you're not  _wearing_ your accelerator. Someone with chronal disassociation like you should have just vanished."

"That's because I don't  _have_ chronal disassociation anymore. You cured me," Lena explained, continuing her approach. "When you tampered with my accelerator, it caused it to malfunction in ways no one had ever thought possible. It broke me down piece-by-piece, molecule-by-molecule, atom-by-atom, quark-by-quark, scattering me across every moment of every place that has ever existed and beyond. I didn't just warp through spacetime—I  _transcended_  it. I was exposed to the basis that makes up the very foundation of every  _facet_  of our entire reality. I broke into the nothingness past existence, and when I was inside of that nothingness, I saw the makeup of the core of the universe, and it transformed me and taught me things your mind cannot even  _comprehend_."

"That… doesn't make any sense," Sombra stuttered. "You're not making any sense."

"Then maybe you need a lesson on spacetime." Lena continued. "A good friend of mine always referred to it like a book. We're the words written on the pages, and no matter what we do, the pages always move forward, and the text—our actions—always remain fixed into place. But now, thanks to you, I have the pen. I can move anyone and anything into any relative location in spacetime I want to. I can revert deserts back into oceans. I can age human beings into infinity. I see and understand  _everything_ , not just things that  _have_  happened, but things that will. I don't just control time anymore; I  _am_  time. And you happened to  _really_  piss me off."

Sombra stepped back further until there was nowhere else to go. She glanced behind her, realizing her heels were planted firmly on the edge of the structure. Lena walked up to her until their faces were inches apart.

"You can't win this fight," Lena stated.

Sombra flashed a grin, but it was clear to both that it was strained. "You… you don't scare me, chica. Do you have any idea who I am? I am Sombra, the greatest hacker who has ever lived. I am the goddess of this world. I am the savior of modern civilization. I am—"

"Olivia Colomar," Lena said with a shrug. Sombra paused, her eyes wide with terror. "And you aren't immune to gravity."

Lena shoved her, and she fell. The wind caught hold of Sombra's back instantly, and as she felt her feet leave the floor, a high-pitched shriek emitted from her lips. Her descent was rapid; she was lost as gravity took hold of her, dragging her down faster and faster, screaming past the windows of the Spire. She began to tumble, and her nerve instantly crumbled. She was going too fast. The world spun all around her, and the feeling of weightlessness crept up through her stomach and into her chest, nauseating her endlessly. Even a thousand feet in the air, the ground approached quickly, and within seconds the pavement became crystal clear, and so too were the civilians down below, watching with dreaded anticipation for her to splat across the road like a fly against a windshield. There was nowhere left for Sombra to go, no computer to hack, no airship to pick her up. Her voice gave out screaming as the road became a hundred feet away, and then fifty, then twenty, ten, and five.

And then, a blue flash of light engulfed her, and she regained her senses just long enough to notice that she was floating at the top of the Spire.

Then, gravity set in, and she fell all over again. She tumbled past the same windows, and the same nauseating feeling lurched through her innards. The helplessness was exactly the same as well, and she desperately searched for anywhere to grab onto, she continued to spin around and around and around, falling to her death. Yet, as she was halfway down the Spire, she heard something new. Over the rush of the wind pounding against her ears, she heard a very calm, polite British voice speak to her.

"Gonna be honest, I didn't think you would be a screamer."

Sombra looked over to her left, and there was Lena, falling headfirst right beside her, her arms crossed over her chest, and a particularly uninterested look plastered on her face.

"Like, I get that falling to your death is a pretty terrifying thing," she continued openly, "but I've always quite enjoyed falling. It gives a pretty strong rush of adrenaline, you know? Gives you plenty of time to think about things."

"What… what are you  _doing_?" Sombra shouted, petrified. Forty feet. Thirty feet. Twenty feet.

"Simple," said Lena. "You broke my time. Now, my time breaks you."

A flash of blue light overtook them just before impact, and they fell again from the top. Sombra tumbled over and backward, rotating uncontrollably, while Lena stayed calm and straight as ever.

"Stop this! Stop this right now!" Sombra cried.

"Stop? We've only just started," Lena stated. "What's wrong? Oh, don't tell me you're afraid of heights, Olivia. I mean, I know you had that incident with the tree when you were six, but I didn't think that trauma would carry over to this stage of our life."

"You can't do this to me!" Sombra shouted over the wind. "This isn't fair! I can't even fight back!"

"Don't worry about it," Lena claimed. "By the seventieth time, you should get pretty numb to the whole experience."

"Seventieth time! Are you fucking crazy?"

"Well, to be honest, my brain did absorb an infinite quantity of energy from other dimensions, so that probably isn't all that healthy…"

"I swear to God, when I get my hands on you, I'll—"

Again. Sombra completely lost track of her thoughts. It was getting hard to breathe. She had been falling for what felt like forever. And according to her tormentor, there was no end in sight.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!  _Fuck_!"

"Hey, watch your language," Lena said harshly. "Kids could be listening. I'm trying to set a good example for them."

"Maldito cabrón! Te arrancaré el puto corazón y yo te mata en tu sueño!"

"Hey! I know what that means now! Rude."

Again. At the top of her fall, Sombra saw the heroes recovering, staring at her with a mix of confusion and pleasure. She tried cursing them out, but before she could utter a word, she had dropped out of sight.

"Will. You. Stop. Doing that?" Sombra asked desperately.

"Doing what?"

"Sending me down this… oh, god, I think I'm going to be sick…"

"Oh, you're still upset about that?" Lena asked. "I thought you were the one who thought I was taking things too seriously? You wanted me to liven up? Well, here we are, having fun together. Lena and Olivia. And I fully intend for us to have fun together for a very long time."

Again. As Sombra fell, she looked over at Lena, a broken look in her eye. How many had thousands of feet she fallen? How long had she been caught in a sickening weightlessness? How long would it be before Lena decided to be merciful and let her actually hit the ground below?

"Please… let me go," Sombra begged. "I don't want to fall anymore. I've learned my lesson. Please…"

Lena merely glared at her.

"Come on! What do you want me to say?" Sombra cried. "I'm sorry for brainwashing your friend. I'm sorry for trying to kill your girlfriend. I'm sorry for everything bad I have ever done to you. I don't want to fall. I can't fall. I hate falling so, so much, and I am so sorry, so please be a decent person and put me back on the ground."

Lena said nothing.

"Dammit, say something already!" Sombra cried, looking down as the ground grew closer to her yet another time. Lena gave her a cold stare, and as the ground rapidly approached, she opened her mouth, and spoke dryly.

"Freeze. Don't move, or I'll shoot."

Again. Sombra fell from the top. Her mind was spinning, and her eyes rolled into the back of her head, but she did not pass out.

Again. The ground seemed to move faster and faster, increasing the rate of each fall. The wind rushed through her like blood.

Again. She lost count of how many times she had fallen down, but she had long grown sick of Lena staring at her. And of Overwatch staring at her. And of the civilians staring at her. And of life, in general.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Finally, after the billionth time falling from the Spire, after the trillionth foot, Lena decided that it would probably be best to give the miserable little hacker a check-in.

"So, how are you feeling, love?" Lena asked with genuine concern. "Because to be honest, I'm feeling absolutely great. Fantastic, even. In fact, I think I could just about fall forever."

Again.

"And when I say forever, I mean…"

Again.

"…literally…"

Again.

"…forever."

Again.

Sombra looked at Lena hopelessly, her eyes wet and running. Lena couldn't tell if those tears were from actual suffering, or just the harshness of the wind, but either way, it sparked enough mercy within the speedster to consider wrapping things up.

"Please…" Sombra muttered with the last of her energy. "Please… I beg you…"

"Do you promise never to hurt anyone ever again?" Lena asked sternly.

"Yes…"

"Do you promise that you will turn yourself in to the authorities, and surrender all technology both attached and unattached to you?"

"Anything… please…"

"And do you promise that, if you ever get out of custody, you will use your gifts to actually  _help_  people instead of harming them?"

"Yes."

"And I don't mean helping them by pushing a crazy world-conquering, conspiracy-riddled agenda to enslave mankind. I mean, you know, design software for the local soup kitchen."

"Yes. Yes. Yes."

"Okay, maybe not that, but you know what I—"

"Yes! For God's sake, the ground is getting closer!"

Lena nodded approvingly. "Good. Then, I guess you deserve a break."

There was a flash of blue light, and suddenly, they were back on the roof of the Spire, standing on solid ground. Sombra immediately fell to her knees and collapsed. She shuddered on the ground, too busy hyperventilating to notice Lena kneeling over her, watching with a keen eye. The hacker wept silently, muttering the phrase, "Solid ground," over and over again under her breath. Lena placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"There, there," she cooed, "it's all over now."

"Solid ground. Beautiful solid ground," Sombra whispered in a daze.

Lena sighed, rising to her feet. She turned to Overwatch, who had long since recovered and had been watching the spectacle for the past ten minutes. She laughed awkwardly, and gestured to the hacker.

"So, yeah… I might have gone a bit too far on that one," she said nervously. "Truthfully, I didn't think she would react like this—"

Lena barely had the chance to finish her sentence, as within seconds Winston leaped forward and pulled her into the biggest, tightest hug she had experienced in her whole life. Tears were already running down the face by the time he held her, and she soon became lost in her friend's embrace.

"I missed you so much, Lena," he choked out happily. "I'm so happy to see you again."

"Happy to see you again, too," she said sweetly. Soon, the others joined her, wrapping around her and smushing her into the middle of a massive group hug. Her arms weren't big enough to contain them all, but they held her as they wept for their rediscovered friend. On the rooftop of the Spire, as the grey clouds began to dissipate, and he sun returned, they stayed, proud to be reunited as a family one more time. They had finally done it. The threat was neutralized. They had won.

"You won't believe how much I missed you guys," Lena said happily.

"Same," Mei said warmly. "And you've got new powers now. That's pretty cool."

"Yeah," Lena agreed. "Pretty cool."

Lena stared joyfully at the people surrounding her, but soon, she realized that she was missing someone. With a small bit of force, she was able to break apart the hug, and make eye contact with her: Widowmaker, standing several yards away, annoyedly staring at her rifle as she balanced her weight on her wounded leg.

"Amélie?" she asked curiously.

"Yes… I don't think so," the sniper responded honestly. "I'm not really a fan of group hugs or any form of physical contact. That, and I hate all of you. So much. Really, I think I'm just going to go now—"

Lena dashed forward, and without warning, jumped straight into Widowmaker's arms, and pulled her into a sweet hug. The assassin froze in place, stunned by the warmth of another living being. Her face was emotionless as Lena whispered into her ear.

"I missed you, too."

Widowmaker wasn't exactly sure how to respond to that. Her arms remained straightened at her sides, but the creature would not let go of her. Knowing that her only chance of freedom relied on saying something nice, she sighed, and spoke to the quirky, monstrous being that, for some reason, she didn't hate as much as she remembered.

"I'm glad you weren't ripped apart across all of spacetime," Widowmaker muttered.

"I'll take that," Lena said contently.

"Great. Now," Widowmaker stated, motioning to the others with her head, "will someone please get her off of me?"


	16. XVI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end... is here! Finally, after eons, we have managed to finish a story. Many thought it was impossible, but we pulled through. If you have somehow managed to follow this the entire time without giving up, thank you very much. We hope you've enjoyed it, because we've had a lot of fun writing it. If you did like it, let us know. If you hated it, why are you here? Why? Why, sir? Seriously, thanks a whole lot. What are we writing next? No idea, but we do have another story we've been putting off for a long time (non-Overwatch related) that we might get started on. Hope you'll join us then. If not, have a great holiday season, and goodbye.

Despite having the ability to manually control time, Lena was surprised at how fast the three weeks had flown by. To be fair, so much had happened in such a short period that even a being comprised entirely of ultra-condensed flux temporal energy (or whatever it was that Winston said) would have difficulty catching her breath. First there was the matter of arresting all of the members of Talon and finding various prisons across the face of the planet that would be able to hold them, and then there was the process of coordinating with the authorities to clean up the structural damage to The Shard, and after that they had to plead with the government to not arrest  _them_  for causing a public uproar, and it was only after they had dealt with that mess were they able to quarantine off any and all mind-controlled individuals that Sombra left behind, so they could move forward with the arduous process of chemical testing to find the cure, and then once they had the cure they had to move forward with the process of approving it with multiple national governments to be allowed to distribute it to the afflicted parties—after the families had signed two-hundred-page waivers, of course—and though she supposed that most of it was able to move along at a fairly decent pace for a normal person, the fact that her senses had been semi-blown out of proportion by her nightmarish spacetime breakdown meant that everything moved so damn  _slowly_. Every second felt like it was stretched into a thousand, and all she wanted was for everyone to move their tongues around their mouths just a tiny bit faster, so she could get on with the rest of her possibly-infinite lifespan.

Winston told her that she would eventually get used to it. She was convinced he was lying.

Still, Lena wasn't upset. Far from it; her eyes had been opened to a world more incredible than anything she could have imagined. She had an experience that no-one else in the cosmos ever had, and that was something to be treasured, even if it was actually terrible to experience the experience. More importantly, her brain was filled with vast universal knowledge, and quite frankly, she thought that was pretty cool. She knew what was found deep inside the inner reaches of black holes. She knew the name of every alien in galaxies hundreds of trillions of lightyears away. She finally found confirmation that, yes, peanut butter was the best food. That was simply fact. No other food was better, nor would any food be better in the history of humankind. Peanut butter was simply the best that anyone could ever achieve—except for those with allergies.

Unfortunately for Lena, she did not know everything. Technically, she did, but as she soon discovered after the battle with Sombra, the human mind was only capable of remembering about seven separate things at any given time, and she had a lot of different things fighting for that space. Everything was stored somewhere in her brain, but searching for it took a while, which was the very reason why she was laying down on the medical bed in the watchpoint with bright lights shining down on her, and Emily kneeling by her bedside, clasping their hands together as she nervously awaited the results of the test.

"Well, that's incredible," chimed Angela, who stood over her computer screen, scrolling through the notes with a fascinated stare.

"What's incredible? Is that a good thing?" Emily asked worriedly.

"I'll be honest with you. I haven't the slightest idea," Angela responded. "I've never seen anything like this before. Your entire body is absolutely radiating with temporal energy. Your mass seems to have doubled, and yet it's almost nonexistent. You've become some sort of living, breathing, walking paradox."

"Can you fix it?" asked Emily.

"Doesn't seem so. Something like this is far beyond the technology we currently have."

"So… you're saying you can't fix my eyes back to normal?" Lena asked. Angela turned to her, confused.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"My eyes. You can't change them?" Lena asked calmly. "Because I really liked my old eyes to be honest, and though I don't mind them being blue, I feel a bit weird every time I look in the mirror."

"Is… is that your biggest concern?" Angela questioned.

"No, not at all," Lena said truthfully. "Plenty of things concern me. Snakes. Thunderstorms. Assassination attempts—oh, what, your talking about the whole 'me being a paradox thing'? In that case, I think so. Other than immediate death. Or completely losing control of my memory and actions."

"And  _that's_  what concerns me," Emily stated to Angela. "She keeps going through these episodes. I can't get her to focus on anything."

"Hey, I'm focusing on you right now," Lena protested.

Emily raised a suspicious eyebrow. "Really?"

"No. Not at all. I was thinking about snakes again."

"See what I mean?" Emily sighed. Angela nodded thoughtfully, and walked over to the medicine cabinet, scanning the various bottles until she located a stubby orange case and plucked it from the shelf.

"I've been noticing that," Angela said grudgingly. She unscrewed the bottle opening, and dumped three fat pills into her palm. "I don't have a solution for the paradox—yet, anyway—but I think I have something that can calm her mind. Lena, dear, if you wouldn't mind?"

Angela extended her palm, and like a child snatching up candy, Lena grabbed the medication and enthusiastically popped it into her mouth, swallowing them whole without a single gulp of water. She realized afterward she probably should not have done that. Not just because she liked water—or any beverage, really, whether it be smooth or bubbly—but because it was a pain to swallow, and she rubbed her throat afterwards trying to manage the pain, and then she felt a strange twitch in her spine, and then in her stomach, and then, all at once, everything came to a screeching  _halt_.

Lena remembered where she was. The lights in the room seemed to dim, and as her senses faded, something new took over: awareness. The rest of the world seemed to disappear, and suddenly it was just her, along with her closest friend and the woman of her dreams, stuck in a room, trying to put her life together. She felt Emily's hand, the smoothness of her skin; she saw Angela stare at her, study her carefully, analytically, like a lab rat. Like she used to.

Angela probably had it the hardest. Fareeha described what it was like when she awoke at the hospital after Sombra's attack. She had apparently torn the place apart, fighting against the staff, trying desperately to fulfill the last remnants of the mission forcibly implanted in her brain. Fareeha insisted that if it wasn't for her armor, she wouldn't have been able to hold Angela back, even with all her training. By the time Lena had arrived with the cure, Angela was a blubbering mess tied to a bedpost, looking more like a stray dog than a respected doctor. The hardest part wasn't even injecting the serum into Angela's neck as she screamed for help; it was watching her come down from her affliction, and burst into sobs upon realizing what she had nearly done. In the weeks since, Angela had done her best to put those days past her, and Lena respected that quite a lot. The doctor absorbed herself in her work, and as Lena saw her at that moment, she seemed like the events of the past month were only a bad dream, save for a solitary reminder in the form of a light scar buried beneath her hairline.

Then, there was Emily. Poor, sweet Emily. Winston had begged Lena not to mention anything about her "death", and Lena nearly followed along. Winston made some good points. Emily had already been through a lot, and when Lena went to visit her in the hospital, and she saw the bandages wrapped around her shoulder, she was tempted to not say a word about anything that might make the situation worse. Unfortunately, Emily was observant, and it was only a matter of seconds before she noticed that Lena's accelerator was missing, after which Lena was forced to disclose everything. Emily took it surprisingly well, though, and despite her injuries and her newfound paranoia of windows, forced herself out of the hospital several days early so she could help Lena spread the cure around to those who needed it.

And then, there was the matter of the cure itself, and the woman who handed it to them.

Everyone assumed Widowmaker was joking when she said she would help undo Sombra's control. They waited for her to make some sarcastic comment, or sneak into their rooms in the dead of night and slit their throats while they slept. But she never did. Widowmaker simply locked herself in a cell in the watchpoint, and allowed Winston to extract as much of her immunized DNA as he needed to manufacture the cure. She never said a single word, even when Lena pestered her, but in the speedster's mind, she was happy, or at the very least satisfied. Satisfied to be helping people? Satisfied to be rid of Sombra once and for all? Lena wasn't sure. Whatever her feelings were, they were not permanent. A few days prior, when Lena went to check on her in her cell, she had simply vanished without a trace. Gone without even saying goodbye.

"Yep, I think that did the trick," Angela said suddenly, snapping Lena back to the present. "Lena, are you feeling better?"

"Uh, yeah," Lena said awkwardly. "I think so. Thanks for that."

"What did you just give her?" Emily wondered. Angela shrugged.

"About twenty times the recommended dose of amphetamine," she explained. "Lena's metabolism burns so quickly now that anything less probably wouldn't do anything. That being said, do keep checking up on her every now and then to make sure she doesn't spontaneously keel over." Noticing the panic-stricken look on Emily's face, Angela cracked a smile. "Kidding."

Emily took a long, deep breath. "Okay. Okay. I'm… going to use the restroom. I'll be right back." She gave Lena's hand a tight squeeze before leaving the room, still trying to steady her nerves after the mild panic attack Angela had given her. Lena watched her leave, and then sunk into her pillow.

"So, how long until I need to take the next dose?" she asked.

"Take three pills once a day, and you should be fine," Angela explained cautiously. "You might experience a relapse of symptoms sooner than that, so we're going to keep a close eye on you. I don't want to give you too much too soon, though. We don't really know the risks yet and… you know, it's all unknowns so there's a high risk of… failure… and other problems… for you… maybe…"

Angela pinched the bridge of her nose, and turned towards the counter, her shoulders heavy.

"Is something wrong?"

"No, it's just…" Angela started, before catching her breath. "Sorry, I've been thinking about so much lately. I've been so busy trying to get your tests ready, and working on your medication, and then there's everything with the other patients everywhere, and… Winston keeps telling me that I'm working too hard, and I should see a therapist… and it didn't hit me until a few minutes ago, but I am thirty-seven-years-old, and I am still  _single_. I don't think I have  _ever_  been in a serious relationship, and I know I'm not getting any younger—"

"Uh, Angela, I'm pretty sure I'm the one who's supposed to have too many thoughts in her head," Lena noted. Angela sighed, planting herself on the bed by Lena's feet. "Look, I get that you're freaked out. Anyone would be if they went what you just went through."

"I know, I know," Angela insisted. "But… the things I did… to you, to everyone—"

"Was beyond your control," Lena stated. "Nobody blames you. We're just glad that you're okay. Beating yourself up over it isn't going to make anything better, and neither is overworking yourself to death. Honestly, you deserve a long, long,  _long_ vacation, and a just a tiny bit of that amphetamine."

Angela snickered, and Lena shifted forward, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"And don't you worry about relationships either," Lena continued, "If I—a hyperactive, inattentive mess—can find love, someone as beautiful and smart and talented as you can find love in a heartbeat. And I promise, if for some reason you need any help at all, I swear I will be the greatest wingwoman of all time."

"Why, thank you for the offer," Angela said with a laugh.

"No, I'm  _deadly_  serious," Lena said excitedly. "I would make such a good matchmaker. Ooh, I can set you up with someone else in Overwatch. Jesse is single, Genji is single… hell, I think Fareeha is single; you never told me who you're attracted to."

"Lena—"

"Oh, Winston's also single—wait, maybe you shouldn't do that."

"Lena, I'm fine. I'm sure," Angela said with a relaxed smile. "Besides, none of them are exactly my type. No offense."

"Then tell me what your type  _is_ , girl!" Lena exclaimed.

"You are far too invested in this."

"You're damn right, I am! Details. Now."

"Well," Angela said, placing a finger to her lips, thinking carefully, "they would probably be someone with a great sense of optimism."

"Uh-huh…"

"And witty. Very witty."

"Naturally."

"They would need to be brave, selfless…"

"All strong qualities to have."

"And because I'm a narcissist, I would want to date someone younger than me. But not too much younger… mid-twenties, perhaps."

"Good age range."

"And of course, they would have to also be European, but maybe something not too European… something from the west, perhaps. English?"

"Great country," Lena nodded. "It'll make it easier for me to—"

It took a few seconds for the gears to turn in Lena's head, but when the connected, she suddenly froze, the cheerfulness draining out of her face. Angela merely stared ahead, a gentle flush growing in her cheeks, as Lena tried to figure out the best way to put her friend down easy.

"Um… look, Angela," she sputtered, "I get that we're friends and all—"

"Yes…"

"And I don't want this to come between us."

"Never."

"But the thing is," Lena said, taking a nervous breath, "Emily is  _kind of_  already taken."

Angela blinked. She blinked again. The color vanished from her cheeks, and her brow momentarily scrunched. Then, she opened her mouth to say something, but opted against it, rising to her feet and giving a very mild-mannered shrug. Coughing awkwardly, she turned to Lena and cast a downward glance.

"Well… I guess I gave it a shot," she said blankly. "Anyway, I think I'm going to see if Jesse has any vodka left over. I'll check up on you in a bit, Lena."

Angela moved quickly out of the room, strutting at a pace that would have put Lena to shame. Lena watched her go with uncomfortable silence, thinking about how much bravery Angela must have needed to confess that she had feelings for her girlfriend. If the two weren't dating, then Lena assuredly would have done everything she could for her dear friend. But, as it stood, Lena would have to look elsewhere for a witty, optimistic, selfless English woman in her mid-twenties for Angela to swoon over.

If only she knew where to look.

* * *

They thought they could contain Sombra. They would be proven wrong.

They thought they could erase Sombra's legacy from the world. They would be proven wrong.

They thought they could forget all about Sombra by locking her in that little box in a facility in the middle of nowhere. They thought by stripping her of her cybernetic enhancements, they would be safe from her wrath. But Sombra would prove them all wrong when she busted free. It would only be a matter of time before she saw the looks of terror within their eyes. It was only a matter of time before she gutted them one-by-one, like salmon caught freshly from the stream. It was only a matter of time before she found that traitor Widowmaker, and that damned Overwatch, and tore their hearts out slowly, painfully, and with a vengeance the likes of which none had ever seen.

It was that Tracer girl she thought of the most. Her stupid little smiling face. That dumb hairstyle. Those ridiculous powers. Sombra saw her every night in her sleep, in her nightmares. She saw her in the dark confines of the box, reaching out to laugh at her, to mock her defeat. She saw her dragging her down that endless fall, and repeating it again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, never once stopping.

It was maddening, but it gave Sombra purpose. Controlling the world? Meaningless. Overthrowing governments? Child's play. All Sombra cared about was her revenge, to see Tracer and all of her silly hero friends burn into a pile of ashes. When they met again, there would be no more jokes, no more teasing, and no more hesitation. She was going to prove to the entire world just how dangerous Sombra truly was. And she knew, confident as ever, that she was going to escape the hell they had trapped her within.

Eventually.

Like, in a year or two. Or three. Or four.

Once she could see again.

And as soon as she got her arms back.

* * *

It wasn't particularly hard to find her. With all the technology at Overwatch's disposal, Tracer was actually surprised she evaded them for as long as she did. But when the inevitability came, she seemed to be waiting for them. Tracer stepped onto the rooftop, and there she was, cloaked in a dark grey hoodie and a pair of tight-fitting jeans. Her hands were stuffed firmly into her pockets, and she stared outwards towards the remainder of the city, looking down upon the world, her blue skin buried behind the hood. Tracer rolled her eyes; no matter what she claimed, she surely had a flair for the dramatic.

"So, love, you looking for any company?" Lena asked knowingly.

"You know," Widowmaker sighed, "when I left in the dead of night, I did it with the  _very specific_  reason that I did not want to see you again."

"Oh, come on, you know you can't get enough of me," Tracer gushed. "We are best friends now, after all."

"Please never use that word again," Widowmaker groaned. "I helped you once out of necessity. That does not make us friends. I don't care about you at all, or anyone at Overwatch, or your stupid girlfriend—"

" _Fiancé_ , actually," Tracer corrected, purposefully ignoring the fact that Widowmaker just called her stupid. "We're set to be married sometime in December. Surrounded by snow. She didn't want to wait after the whole 'dying' incident, but I managed to convince her to wait until she could gather the family. You're more than welcome to come by the way, once we set the date."

"Thanks, but I would rather kill myself" Widowmaker sneered. "Now, I know you didn't come all this way so you could invite me to your awful wedding."

"Wow, you are  _really_  throwing out those insults. You must be trying  _really_  hard to pretend that you still hate me," Tracer smirked.

Widowmaker grumbled. "Get on with it."

"Okay, okay, okay," Tracer stated. "So, here's the deal. Sombra's defeated, the threat is gone, the world is saved, blah, blah, blah. But, Overwatch still has a lot of work to do all over the world, and we need help. You are a woman of many talents, and so, we've decided to give you an offer: work with us and use your powers for good, and we will forgive any and all debts you have outstanding."

Widowmaker did not even hesitate. "No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Widowmaker said even blunter. "I'm not going to strap on an absurd costume, and live with you idiots every day, and travel the world shouting catchphrases like some cartoon character. The offer is rejected."

"I thought you might say that," Tracer said, her voice going quiet. "That's why… I decided to give you a second offer. One that Overwatch doesn't know about."

Widowmaker remained still, refusing to turn to face her, though listening intently all the same.

"Look, these time powers I just got, they can do incredible things," Tracer explained. "I don't really understand their limit yet, but I think… I  _think_ … I can send you back to the way you were before. I can undo every event in your life for the past several years. If you want me to… I could make you Amélie again."

Widowmaker considered it for a moment. She slowly pulled back her hood, letting her hair cascade down her shoulders. She turned around, her face expressionless as she spoke.

"You would erase everything?"

"Yes," Tracer claimed. "You would go back to the way you were before. You would only remember anything since in brief flashes. You would be you again."

"And Gérard? Would you bring him back, too?"

"I'm… I mean, I could try, if you wanted. I've never tried to bring someone back from the dead before, but I guess it would hypothetically work. If  _he_ wanted to, that is. I don't know."

"Hmm," Widowmaker groaned. "I'll be honest with you. Every single day since I became…  _this_ , I've thought about what my life was before. I thought about how I would do things differently if I was given the chance. Living a normal life, going to work, having a family… it all sounds so simple, and mundane, but pleasant all the same. But… Gérard is dead. Amélie is dead. Those deaths happened for a reason. Even if I could go back, it wouldn't really be  _me_ anymore. I would just be a ghost, caught between what I was and what I should be. The past is the past for a reason, and I think it's for the best if I buried it and left it behind."

"Are you sure?" Tracer asked worriedly.

Widowmaker nodded. "Yes. I'm sure."

Tracer sighed. "Alright, then. I offered. Now, onto the third offer—"

With a sudden flick of her wrists, Tracer pulled out her twin pistols, and took aim at Widowmaker. The assassin did not act with panic, merely gazing at the hero with a mix of tiredness and disappointment.

"Are we seriously doing this right now?" she asked, annoyed.

"Well, you  _are_  technically a criminal," Tracer explained. "We can't just let you roam around doing whatever you want."

"Come on, I don't even have my gun on me," Widowmaker moaned, gesturing to the empty floor beside her.

"Well, whose fault is that?" Tracer asked. "Don't worry, we've beefed up the security in the watchpoint. And Mei helped redecorate your cell. That girl has a wonderful eye for interior design. You'll have TV privileges!"

"As delightful as that sounds," Widowmaker said, slowly making her way to the edge of the rooftop, "I think I'll pass. I much prefer to live my life outside of a prison."

"I don't think you have much choice in the matter," stated Tracer with a proud smirk.

"Sure, I do," Widowmaker said calmly, edging closer to the rooftop. "I'll just escape your capture, like I've done every other time you've ever tried this."

"You know I can move much faster than I could before, right? I'll catch you in a heartbeat."

"Oh, I'm sure you could," Widowmaker said slyly, "but you won't. You'll move at the exact same speed you always have, even if you can run faster. Because no matter how much you would love to catch me, it's nothing compared to your love of the chase."

Tracer watched in stunned silence as Widowmaker backed up to the edge of the building, never breaking eye contact as she smiled sharply, and gave a small wave goodbye.

"Au revoir."

Widowmaker stepped off the edge, and for a moment, Tracer thought about catching her. It would have been easy; a single blink forward, and Widowmaker would have been in her grasp, ending years' worth of pain and struggle. But she did nothing, except watch with an open jaw as Widowmaker fell off the building and out of sight.

Damn, the assassin knew her well.

Tracer, with a spiteful grin, dashed towards the edge at regular speed, and leaped off with a spring, chasing Widowmaker down the side of the very, very tall building towards the city streets. As the two fell in harmony, Tracer closed her eyes, letting the wind take hold of her. She could already picture the night ahead of her; Widowmaker would grapple from rooftop-to-rooftop, and Tracer would remain just a hair behind her, always out of reach. They would continue their dance for hours, always evading, until Widowmaker would somehow slip away, and Tracer would track her down all over again. But she wasn't mad. That was her life, she supposed: always chasing after something just out of reach, but something she was positive she would eventually achieve. It was a good life to have. And even if she failed, she would still return home to Overwatch and their smiling faces, telling her how proud they were to have her on their team, and Angela would give her a million check-ups to make sure she wasn't broken in any peculiar places, and Emily would be waiting patiently at home, safe in the knowledge that her fiancé was the coolest woman on the planet. It was, without a doubt, the greatest life on the planet, and Tracer let out a cheerful laugh knowing even if she didn't catch Widowmaker, it didn't take away from the rush of the wind against her face, or the sound of the city streets beneath her, or the thrill of the chase, or the joy she felt every single moment she got to truly be herself. That was her life, and she was blessed to have it.

After all, what other life would let her constantly fall off thirty-story buildings?


End file.
